


The Distances

by Yaoiflame9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, angbang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaoiflame9/pseuds/Yaoiflame9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the power of Melkor, Sauron had risen to the heights unimaginable. However, there came the time where he began questioning everything about his master, starting from his choice of the lieutenant, to emotions and motives behind everything. Hiding his unrequited love and building bitterness toward Melkor, Sauron was faced with many turmoils while still remaining loyal. Whereas Melkor was referring to him as his son, he could still be found with Sauron in many a sexual context, and that also worsened the matters...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dance of Helcaraxë

**Author's Note:**

> VERY IMPORTANT TO READ: : I was looking on the Internet for more information and insights about the relationship between Sauron and Melkor, and, to my surprise (it can be kind of obvious, but for some reason, it has never occurred to me before), I came across a discussion about their father-son relationship. Namely, Melkor has taken Sauron in because he saw himself and his relationship with Eru within Mairon’s relationship with Aulë (that is, both Eru and Aulë’s lack of appreciation for the abilities of their ‘sons’). It is also said that Melkor never appreciated Sauron either, but pretended to do so, in order for him to extract the best from Sauron. Anyway, I will leave the link here( http://mordor69452.yuku.com/topic/2655/The-relation-between-Morgoth-and-Sauron ), if you want to read the thread in entirety and see what I am talking about. So, anyway, I decided to tamper with this idea, incorporating, of course, a lot of sexual tension between the Dark Lords. So stay tuned and I hope you will like this. You are more than welcome to leave kudos, and comments as the means of expressing your thoughts and constructive criticism would be much appreciated as well. So, on with the story, then. :)  
> P.S.Music for this chapter, since it has a ritualistic dance can be Niwashi King by Hirasawa Susumu (the lyrics are not important, but the rhythm and melody). It inspired me to write this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own only this story. 
> 
> Please ask me for permission before sharing this elsewhere.

Upon the seemingly endless vastness of the wasteland of Helcaraxë, fell the mild light of dusk, created by the much abhorred Trees, mixing with the enriching fire of the fire spirits that still, due to the balance of the forces, did not melt the ice beneath. The annual festival of the eternal winter and darkness was taking place. The finishing ritual dance of fires and icicles was now in progress, before the Dark Lord Melkor, as he sat comfortably in his furs.

The dancers were positioned in the circle around the main dancer, moving to the powerful, seducing chanting of the invisible choir and the beat of numerous drums. The dancers were moving gracefully, as if bowing to the central figure. Those were the least ugly of the Orcs, concealed by long, orange capes to appear taller and mimic the flames.

Around his ankles, the main dancer wore the jagged manacles of ice that melted from his heat, but were renewed constantly by Melkor’s magic. His strong, but lean figure was adorned in a long, white coat of dried ice, burning his skin that healed many times over in a matter of seconds. He was dancing swiftly and fiercely, the sound of the chants and drums setting his blood and sinews ablaze as he turned wildly around his axis, snow-blond hair fluttering behind him. As if in fever, he danced and twisted and one would think he would fall due to all those intricate maneuvers, but he stood stable and was the most graceful figure Melkor had ever seen.

The Dark Lord pondered his cousin Aulë’s stupidity in the matters of Mairon, his main and most talented Maia. For he now danced before him so beautifully, conveying with his body his will to bow to the dark arts, to serve and be loyal and be cherished and appreciated in return.

‘That much we shall see,’ thought Melkor, ‘For I can elicit from him all that I need and give him what he wants, yet still feel nothing. Such is the art of deception and despite him being quite a good student regarding that subject, he shall still fail to see my feigning the appreciation of his deeds’, concluded he.

Enveloped in ice that was releasing hot fumes, the eyes of the treacherous Maia burned with the fires of the forges he had betrayed not so long ago; they burned with determination and the stems of violence, vileness, and deception. Contempt for Aulë was also present behind the graceful lids of Melkor’s new servant as he met that defiant, dangerous gaze, framed by the long blond hair. This thrilled the dark Vala, now engrossed in the suggestive, holy dance of Mairon, who still twisted and turned briskly and fervently, while other observers let their breaths be stalled in their lungs and throats, upon watching this mad, adorable dance.

“Dance for me, Mairon, my beautiful and loyal subject, my ally, and be celebrated and worshipped by the lesser of us!” encouraged him his new master. “My eyes and ears, my valued spy,” he continued sweetly, “until your bones crack and break and your flesh tears from them, from that mortal body; dance for the age of darkness where your fire shall also be met as the chilliest of winters this world is yet to see!”

And so fueled by the words of his savior, Mairon allowed himself to be drunken by his own body and this ritual, until his bones ached and fatigue assailed his muscles. But he still danced tirelessly, rarely if ever abandoning the dark and now lustful eyes of Melkor. For he, too, was now entranced and drunken by the body of the fallen Maia, the mightiest of all blacksmiths Arda had ever seen, yet not less elegant because of his strength. He was still young and frail in Melkor’s eyes and was yet to grow. With ears submerged in the sound, he beckoned with his long, powerful finger for Mairon to approach.

And he did so, still dancing, allowing the button of his coat to be torn apart by his eager movements. It tore and fell on the ice of Helcaraxë, only to melt since it was no longer a part the two Ainur. In consequence, what was revealed to Melkor’s feverish drunken eyes was a beautiful, well-toned, but still delicate abdomen of his new ally, with the enticing contraption in the lower middle of the abdomen, named navel. Which is, to the Ainur, of course, completely useless, but still present as a decoration.

Fixated upon it, Melkor beckoned again, becoming more impatient, but was careful enough for it not to show. Sweaty from the dancing, and still doing so, came Mairon before him and was about to kneel (though he, in truth, wanted to defiantly stand and let Melkor satisfy his lustful curiosity, which he had sensed and seen in him), but his lord said otherwise and instead, holding him by the hips, still in his sitting position, buried his handsome face in Mairon’s abdomen.

He was planting soft kisses from top to bottom and in reverse, relishing in the wanton warmth and firmness of it, as the others watched in bewilderment, unsure whether to approve or disapprove of such actions. Some of them, were they acute observers, could see the transformation in Mairon now; the wickedness of his smirk and a small protruding fang; pride and malice in his eyes and a gasp of desire for their master. He was, for a brief second, a faint reflection of the Dark Lord himself. 

But no one had the chance to utter anything, for Melkor lifted his beautiful head and, while looking at the person before him, spoke in a deep, pompous, yet solemn voice, “You shall, with no doubt, be responsible for many a great deed, for I have seen in you, my Mairon, in your body, in your eyes, the quality and determination and infinite talent for anything you choose to do. Before you is the best future you can imagine, should you decide to stay by my side, my precious jewel and lieutenant.” Nobody expected to hear this title, and yet again, they contained their gasps of amusement and awe. Mairon was looking kindly and in a conspiring way at his new lord.

“As soon as I build our home, my dearest servant, you will no longer be a spy but the commander of my armies, and you shall have a home of your own, for I shall raise you a fortress and Angband shall be its name, for you to defend our cause from anything that comes from the West,” finished Melkor and beheld great amusement in the eyes of the young, corrupted blacksmith, and gratefulness and adoration.

Mairon was winning in his endeavor to prevent himself from crying and shakily, yet solemnly said, “I shall belong to you now, and not Aulë, and I will let myself be used however you please; and I will serve you to the best of my ability, bringing order to you chaos and magnificent creations, my liege.” 

“Yes, all of that,” retorted Melkor in a voice of promise, “for you are mightier than he ever thought you were and ablest, and most gifted, Mairon. Never forget that.” His eyes now shone with suggestiveness and he continued, “And now here, in the vastness of the merciless Helcaraxë, as the treacherous Trees take their turns in shining, not only do we celebrate the eternal winter and darkness, but birth, a splendid transformation of our Mairon, and welcome him into our ranks with open arms!” he announced, and took a firmer grip of the Maia’s hips. “And now, Mairon, you shall relish in the powers of Melkor and feel privileged, and feel humble before me, now, and forever!”

Before he could think of a reply, Melkor dug his hot, wet, lustful tongue into his navel and presently he was transfixed with the surge akin to lightning, but a hundredfold stronger and, presumably, much more pleasant. Countless tingling sensations invaded his body and spirit, which he could plainly, insufficiently describe as the peak of his life; millions of times stronger than the sexual climax and thus much more holy and foul and beautiful. It was the peak of his existence, the existence of the whole entire Arda and all the fates and creatures that it harbored; it was the most intense and most fleeting sensation on whose wave he was riding in might and was at the height of everything. He felt elated beyond measure, and, as he was receiving the powers of Melkor, he moaned and arched his back, looking at the darkening, starry sky, his fingers firmly holding the head of his owner, for now he devoted his entire being to this most extraordinary entity of sadness and evil. 

And, as all the tremendous feelings, this otherworldly climax subsided; he fell to his knees and was welcomed into the warm embrace of Melkor, who put his lips on his ear and whispered with a tone that could vaguely be called affectionate, “Welcome home, my son.”


	2. Gorthaur the Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor's observations of Sauron's rise and mercilessness , his vague pride of him, and Sauron's budding dissatisfaction.

Many a year had passed since then. Many an event had taken place. And now, after three ages of imprisonment and the most fabled theft in all of Arda, Melkor was yet again the sheer terror among all living things, many times worse than he used to be. And in all regards Mairon, now named Sauron (The Abhorred, naturally, Melkor thought, but even so, that name had a nice, profound ring to it, and it resonated with an intimidating, yet dreamy quality, in a way), had a great part in it and was most deserving in all the wrongdoings that the Dark Lord had set his mind to. 

During his absence, Sauron not only worked hard on raising the armies, forged the weapons, and invented new monsters, torture techniques and the like (all in secrecy), but he grew to be an elegant, beautiful, yet formidable leader. With all this, Melkor was pleased, for he beheld the most beautiful creature of his own creation...or, seeing as he could not make anything of his own, rather, his modification. And he had seen a perfect tactician, a splendid warrior, and even more so, the perfect schemer, liar, and deceiver.

Sauron’s true strength lay in his wits more than in his war skills, but the latter, too, were good enough and appreciated enough. The proof of it was the Orcs’ trainings, their endurance in battle and the fact that his dark reign could not be diminished, even though they had constantly been outnumbered by the Valar and Elf lords alike. 

Now he beheld Sauron with eyes of a proud father. His physical form, despite being always strong and broad-shouldered, had had, in the past, some sort of invisible frailty to it, back when he was still naïve and untainted by negative emotions. But now, being exposed to Melkor’s malice, Sauron grew and had a much firmer stance, much more of a fearsome, gracious, and strong stature of a smith, yet managed to retain the nobility, elegance, and delicacy all the same. A tremendous piece of art, breathtaking and admirable.

With his iron fist, he commanded the armies and kept high maintenance of their current dwelling. Angband was the darkest fortress Melkor had ever seen, but also the warmest place due to the underground forges blazing with wrathful fires of Sauron’s might and skill. All of it in his master’s name.

Yet still, this was not all that the Dark Lord bore witness to, upon his return. There was something dark and threatening in Sauron’s person that he could not decipher. The way he tormented his prisoners. The way that he corrupted the innocents. The way he walked among the common folk and brought forth the demise of many homes. His tongue that promised many great things, riches and power, to the fools, and in that fashion acquired many allies and everybody bowed before him. He was now, in short, rising in his own might and in him Melkor saw his child, a soul modified to be the mirror version of himself. But this child, wrathful, yet wise and dignified, bore in himself an air of defiance and sorrow Melkor cared not understand. 

Had he cared enough, he could have asked. But at that moment, many ailments caused by the Silmarils in his crown were overbearing. His hands hurt from whence they bore burns of the gems, and his head ached from the weight of the crown the Silmarils were now built into. The treacherous jewels that were bound to cause many a bloodshed. The latter pleased him, but still, it had all come at the great cost.

Sauron oft tended to his wounds and with unmatched care and worry, while still retaining a calm expression on his face. His lord liked to think of him as his personal Nienna, who, unlike the real one, could not shed tears. But Sauron always carefully took his hands and soaked them in the pleasant liquids that brought a temporary relief in the form of soft tingling. At those times, it appeared to Melkor that he got his old hands back. But it never lasted long. Next, Sauron would tap them gently with a soft, dry cloth to remove the excess water, and then would as tenderly and caringly as he could, rub the ointments into the destroyed skin. 

“Is this why you heave the sad sounds, my son?” Melkor would then gently ask. And Sauron’s answer would always be that he was in the right. Yet there was more to it than mere sadness for the condition of his master’s hands, but Melkor paid no heed and had little interest in his servant’s personal affairs.  
¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬  
There was this new method of torture Sauron was developing, which much interested the Dark Lord. It was something ingenious in itself, introducing a new variable to the tortures. Deep down in the torture chambers lay a big, comfortable bed, and there Sauron would often bring women of Men, to decide about their fate in various vicious ways.

Curious, Melkor was allowed to spectate, in the dark corner of the room, where all that could be seen of him was his terrifying crown, for the three Silmarils encircled by impenetrable darkness of the crown’s metal, looked and shone like three menacing eyes of a monster.  
Clad in his fairest of forms, Sauron had long, blond hair and an innocent expression on his beautiful face. His firm body enveloped in the finest of silk and cotton one had ever laid eyes upon.

“The virgin,” said he, and the two Orcs brought in a terrified young woman. The poor creature was so frightened that she dared not put even the slightest of efforts into resisting. The man formerly known as Mairon looked at the darkest corner and smiled, then returned to the woman in question. He circled around her for a while, then stopped before her and in the gentlest voice unknown to Melkor, asked, “Sweet child, why are you afraid?”

The maiden was trembling and could not say anything still. “Perhaps,” he continued, “my home and my servants oppress you so?” She slightly nodded her head. Sauron smiled. “Oh, well, I am, after all, Gorthaur the Cruel, as they tend to call me...” he brought his face closer to hers. “Do you happen to think so too?”

“I-I would not know, sir. If it pleases you so, then I suppose I do...” The woman finally uttered. Sauron chuckled in a way anyone would take him for a good-natured fellow, and Melkor observed this transformation with fascination.

“No need to be so docile, now. Those things are just rumors, my darling,” he purred.

The girl, now calmed a bit, became aware of another presence in the room, and upon turning her head in the direction all of her senses told her to, saw naught but the three evil eyes looking right in her direction.

“And yes, this is our master, Lord Melkor, the ruler of all of Arda, my precious. And the lights are those marvelous Silmarils that vouch he will do you no harm. He is not a foul person. He is here to give us the blessing we need.”

“The blessing?” the girl asked in a barely audible voice.

“Why, yes, my love...” he ran his hand through her hair, “I must be forgetful, for which I apologize,” he said and touched his forehead as if in self-reprimand. “Allow me to explain, my dearest...” and, as if hypnotized, she let him sit her on the bed. “I have been watching you since you were but a child, watching you grow and become a beautiful, kind person. Each time I passed by your house, the smell of your flowers, of your garden, kept beckoning me to come and ask for your hand, to make you my wife and give life to this wasteland...For what you have heard about me is all but a lie, my pigeon. In truth, I am but a lonely master of this dwelling and am hopelessly enamored with you...” he spoke sweetly, cunningly capturing her eyes with his own, yellow and gold and red, burning with the same matter the heart of Arda had been made of. And she smiled at him, insecurely at first. But he kept on flattering her and smiling at her, telling her of his desire to be good and honorable again, for it had been she that changed his ways so drastically. And she believed him, for he had been informed of her heritage and upbringing, and she was no more than a naïve peasant girl, unrefined and uneducated, nursed by the tales of princes and crowns and maidens in distress.

“But first, you need to give me your own flower, love,” he said, and she obliged. “Do not be afraid. I am not your enemy...Think how the whole of Angband will be your garden and all the rooms the bed chambers of our children.” And she was his. Tenderly, he undressed her, caressing her with both his hands and kindness and fondled her until she was relaxed and ready. At that moment, Sauron was the gentlest of lovers, as he undressed himself and watched as her breath halted in admiration of his beauty, and painlessly, bloodlessly, took the virginity away from her. She was melting in his embrace, as he graced her with small kisses along her neck and all over her face. And doubtlessly, she loved him, or thought that she did, as much as a simple-minded, stupid girl could love. 

But when he was finished with her, the look upon his face was that of pure disgust. “You stupid wench,” he told her, “falling into my trap so easily! Did you really think I, Gorthaur the Cruel, would ever take interest in an unremarkable person such as yourself? A peasant, commoner girl. Illiterate. Stupid. Mortal...Did you really think that I would allow my precious semen to inhabit your worthless belly and let you bear my heirs?! For one, I do not need them. And even if I did, I would rather grovel before Manwë’s feet than let you bear any! You disgust me and deserve no better than to bear the Orc children. Perhaps not even that, so think of me as merciful,” he finally finished, with all the malice he could muster, and could not bear to look at her face in tears, the cowardly tears which had no meaning to him. And then, he told the Orcs,”Take her with you. Rape her, maim her, she is all yours to do whatever you want.” And they did. All that she left behind her was her desperate screaming and wailing, after they raped her before their lords, suffocating her with their own members and curses and surges of pain. So much, that she forgot so soon about the betrayal she had been subjected to, so Sauron could not enjoy the look full of terror and disbelief. 

“The prude,” he said immediately after. And with similar language he persuaded her to ignore her surroundings, so much that she forgot where they were. Then he made wanton love to her that Melkor was sitting flabbergasted by another sudden transformation of his right hand. Seeing the once naïve Mairon, who saw good in everything, take a woman and penetrate her mercilessly from behind, invading all that could be filled with his firm, unyielding length, he was captivated and amazed, but still had many questions regarding this method. For both women so far, drew nothing but pleasure out of him, with a small exception of the Orc-rape in the first case. He was of the opinion that there was more to Sauron’s devices than he was currently capable of comprehending. His crown sat heavy upon his head like a menacing old bird, pecking at his brain.

All that he could see was the lustful body of his second in command, his adopted son, his other, sobered self, as he -fucked- (yes, that word sounded right in his mind, as he had just invented it), sweat glistening on his strong body, snow blond hair glued to his forehead as he cursed in the woman’s ear and taught her various positions and tricks in bed. Soon, from a prude, Sauron created a whore (strangely, it resembled the word abhorred). And when he was finished with her, this was his verdict, “From now on, this will be the only way you can mate with your husband. But despite your prowess, he will not enjoy it, for he will always suspect you of being unfaithful and will make your life more miserable than we would be able to, here in Angband.” With that, she was sent off to her home. 

And so he made one a whore who would be unfaithful, two other virgins ended up with Orcs, but the third one he raped, tore her vagina and tortured her with various objects until it looked as if she had borne ten children at once. While doing so, he was beating her with his bare hands, while laughing hysterically. Then he whipped her with Balrog whips Gothmog had lent him. Blood was trickling down her things, both out of her behind and her vagina, inside of which her uterus was severely damaged and shredded. Sauron debated whether to let her live barren for the rest of her life, or to proceed with torture. After some thought, he decided for the latter, since he had set several others free. 

A fang was protruding from his partly closed mouth as he licked his upper lip in delight of endless possibilities. “There are countless choices, my liege, and I cannot seem to be able to pick one. For I know that I would much appreciate any other as much as I would the one I chose.”

From the darkness, his master spoke in a contented voice,” I shall not interfere with your entertainment, my youngling. I shall be pleased to see anything you wish to display.”

But this allusion to being a son of Melkor deeply displeased Sauron, even though it meant some sort of acknowledgement. For he desired his lord in a different way, not entirely carnal, but not entirely rid of such feelings. On the other hand, he was aware of the fact that this moment of acknowledgement was fleeting and would disperse as soon as he finished with this daily routine, when the madness the crown had brought with itself would take over once again. And that was only the smallest of Sauron’s burdens and worries. 

“Very well then, “he said, and decided to maim her and garner her for the beasts to eat. Today he would play the cook, for he loved order above all else. And the meat would be neatly removed and flawlessly cut. 

She was the last one for the day. Afterwards, again clad in his dark robes, ready to dress in his armor if needed, properly bathed, combed and immaculate, Sauron was heading to the throne room with Melkor. Walking side by side like that, engaging in a pleasant and meaningful conversation was the way he always loved and relished in it while it lasted. 

“What you could see in this demonstration is but a personal interest of mine. Some of that can be implemented into the society of Men, but I find it impossible to do so in Elves. However, for the time being, I deem that the mortals will suffice. The deepest form of deception is what was dominant here. Bewitch them. Make them trust you. Make them love you. And then betray them.”

“So far it does not seem to stray from the original, but please do continue.”

“To make pleasure a torture, love pain, and endlessly manipulate. To reward happiness with punishment and dread; you would find it merciful, where it is, in fact, cruel. Nobody died, some were set free...but are they indeed, truly free? An emotionally scarred person, damaged beyond repair...Does it not sound wonderful? Can it not create a generation of monsters in Men and bring discord, at first on a smaller, then on a larger scale?”

Melkor let out a small smile. “As expected, brilliant. But what about the last one?”

Sauron smirked. “Just a simple mutilation with a touch of rape. The most rudimentary of savagery and evil,” he replied with pride. “I found it suitable for the end of the day.” 

“Very well, Sauron,” said Melkor, and disappeared into the throne room. His praises sounded more like half-hearted attempts at it, as the time passed. All along Sauron could feel the lack of respect and acknowledgement. This was largely discouraging and irksome, but he had to endure, for he had chosen to follow this path and found it more fulfilling than anything, on a larger scale. Still nothing could do to subside this taste of budding bitterness and bile in his mouth...and then, one day, an Elf appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not proof read. Will be, eventually.


	3. The Sorrow of Sauron

Time was relentlessly moving forward. His ever-seeing eyes and his ever-accurate instincts kept sending reports to his mind of how time could be a thing to burden a person. He had often seen so in Elves, and he was yet to see more of it. Even when he would not be there in person, he would be able to sense the turmoil of the Elves that would still dwell in Middle Earth. The sorrow, loneliness and trauma in the future King of Mirkwood, and even now upon the brow of Finwë’s grandchildren. So much, that death would seem a reward and Men the happiest and luckiest of all the races. Time did not care what it invoked and just flew. And he felt it too in his bones, as it did nothing to his body and still did not yet collect its toll upon his sanity, but did ill upon his heart.

For now, many events had passed and the future seemed grim. His failure at holding Tol Sirion and being defeated by the cleverness and power of a young Elf-lady...Time had passed and had gnawed upon him, a succession of unfathomable events. And though he was many ages older and thus much wiser, it helped not in some situations. 

But there was a major difference between being bested by somebody’s wits and power and being foolishly seduced by pretty appearances, seductive dances, and pretty singing voices. He was wondering how to classify the differences between Melkor and himself. For he no longer knew whether his master had a sober mind and a clear vision of what was to happen and what to strive for like he used to. To lose the gem he had so bloodily earned, over a dance and cheap flirtation unbecoming of a half-Maia, somebody partly of Sauron’s own kind. And it stole his sleep and pained him.

Being in Melkor’s presence proved to be increasingly distracting. His obsession with his own heavy, ugly crown, his wrath and rash decisions, his sporadic episodes of madness, drove Sauron away from Angband. He often sought remote places to where he would go to think, plan and strategize. And he rode for many days and nights, fueled by anger and bitterness, and irrefutable sorrow for his master’s condition. The former Maia of Aulë faced with this devastation in the best fashion he could think of. Being away from his home and from Melkor was necessary if he were to preserve himself from many handicapping and cripplingly stressful situations, for there were wars to be won and minds deprived of any rational thought. He had to prepare everything for Melkor’s final victory (though the chances were fewer as the time was grimly passing by) and his wrathful and triumphant destruction of everything.

And in all that wandering he had free reign, since he doubted Melkor would even notice he was gone. He so rarely summoned him, even when it was of importance for the two of them to consult. Yet still he never questioned his allegiance to his one and only true master, and he still devotedly, but not blindly, followed him like a faithful shadow. He had, after all, agreed and desired to serve Melkor to the best of his abilities, even if it entailed falling together with him.

Nothing seemed to stir such routine of wandering and pondering, until he saw—him. Though it could not be him, for his beauty could not be measured, for he had calloused palms that healed overnight and those did not. His face was dirty instead, and hair tangled. Doubtlessly, this was the first time Sauron beheld an Elf who was not of noble birth. This one was a hard working farmer, dirty and tired, but not short of beauty and grace. The creature indeed created by Eru. Though he resembled somebody Sauron knew a long time ago. And upon seeing him, he had halted his horse, eyes for a moment widened in bewilderment. A breathless, inaudible utterance of “Eönwë “ almost escaped him as he stood, still shocked. It could not be him and indeed it was not. 

The Elf himself had his eyes widened in awe and wonder, mouth half-open and dry. ‘Why does he not fear me?’ thought the figure on the horse. ‘His stance and expression, though, resemble fear, yet they are not, and neither is this defiance.’ For a while, as if under a spell, they kept looking at each other. 

“Lord Sauron,” the Elf finally uttered, the voice barely emerging from his still convulsed throat. His knees would not bend, despite him willing them to. This, to his luck, the Dark Lord understood and did not begrudge. Nor did he seem surprised that the Elf had seen him through his guise. But then again, perhaps in his recklessness and despair, he had forgotten to hide himself.

“Not a Noldorin Elf. Not a Wood Elf. Too fair to be of Doriath, yet your hair is blond...Just who are you?” he asked sternly, looking at this new discovery with cold eyes of disdain. 

“A wandering one, mu lord. I have lived here ever since my folk decided to stay, but not yield to any king. A wanderer and an orphan.”

“And, pray tell, how did one such as yourself survive the raids of the Orcs, or how did you not end up a slave through all these ages? What makes you so special that you survived and have always lived your small, pathetic, peaceful life?” his ill temper had been initially caused by Melkor, and was now worsening, as the words of contempt kept going through his mouth, and a realization began forming in his mind. As he was uttering it, a highly unpleasant surge of bile invaded his intestines, and his abdominal muscles convulsed with discomfort. “You do not have a bearing of anyone of any importance, but you do have a face of one,” his eyes narrowed. “Are you a distraction, an illusion?” his voice turned into a threatening hiss.

The Elf, now afraid a bit, found it difficult to speak and defend himself, but when Sauron was about to lose his patience, he finally replied, “I have developed a fair trade with your troops, my lord. They...they actually pay for the goods and some even help out. I must admit that it does sound strange, but I believe that even they can have a change of heart, even if it was for my benefit...”

“Enough!” Sauron shouted. “It does not matter how small their habit is or how harmless. I shall put an end to it and their small act of mercy,” he said, but was aware of the fact that not even this abomination, however small, could draw if but a second of his master’s interest. Even in his intentionally harshest decisions, Sauron would soon prove to be merciful. For he made a mistake of looking at the Elf’s face once more and was surprised anew by the same thing. Eönwë’s visage was before him, so he alighted his horse and approached the first Elf of common birth who lived long enough to converse with him.

“But you will come with me and serve me, and bend your knee before me.”

“Gladly, my lord,” said the Elf; fascination was his entire face.

“What a strange specimen, indeed. An Elf that recognizes me easily and does not feign adoration,” the dark Maia raised his brow in wonder. 

“Everybody who came here spoke well of you and so much and in detail, that it was easy to admire such a person and recognize it through layers of disguise,” the commoner breathed out. “That I was, in the end, forced to reassess everything, and despite all the wrongdoings of your kind, and being ignorant of your reasons, could not do anything but find admiration for you to blossom within me.”

“But you think that, since you have nothing to lose, this would enable you to give some meaning to your outcast, monotonous life. Do not be foolish. Do not see this as salvation. Yet I assure you, death would be a reward and deliverance, yet your body will be intact, as well as your intellect and heart, but the curse I now bestow upon you will make you wish for death. Mine or yours, it matters not.”

\---

Bewitched he was and privileged, and kept hidden and comfortable, away from the eyes and ears of Melkor. Easily seduced into Sauron’s bed, was graced with his kisses and honored by his touches, and he felt loved. But all this came at the cost of sharing Sauron’s heavy burden, tenfold increased by the curse. For time was merciless and heavy upon the Dark Lord as much as it was upon any other immortal creature that had seen and done many things.

“Once, there was Eönwë, a Maia with great skills at war. We were young and carefree then, newly formed spirits that loved each other innocently and cheerfully, until the weight of the duties and purposes crushed the little happiness we had obtained. Now we were charged with important duties that brought with themselves ambitions...So he became the best in his filed and I was in mine. But his effort was much more praised and unlike him, I was left unrewarded. He has been, to this day, the herald of no other than Manwë himself. While I was a hard-working smith everyone admired, my potential was never allowed to flourish; instead I toiled long and hard for nothing...Not even a praise once in a millennium. That much, without exaggeration. All of my ideas discarded as nothing but a trinket. They made mountains placed with no particular order, canyons that needed not Melkor to crush them. They were so badly made they did a job for him...” spoke Sauron to him once, clad in nothing but a long robe of dark cotton, blond hair sprawled long down his back. He was sitting in a char overlooking a tall window which showed a comforting, overcast sky. Naked in bed was the Elf, whose name Sauron had stripped away. Now he was nameless.

“But I believed that Melkor could put my skills and ideas to good use. I had seen him build and destroy in a blink of an eye and he had told me he believed it too, that I could bring order to his scattered ideas...In all the fairness Eru had created me, I knew nothing of silver tongues and lies. And slowly, though I was unaware at that time, Eönwë’s light began to fade under the shadow of Melkor that loomed over me. Son I showed my lover carnal love and taught him what I invented. And, wanting to assure Melkor could use me as a warrior, I had the sweet, innocent Eönwë teach me all about war. And voraciously I learned...Over the years, he became insignificant, on a scale of bigger events, so I discarded him easily...And now you, with his face, still came to taunt me and induce this strange nostalgia...”

The sorrowful Maia had made sure the Elf could not betray him; he was trapped in the room by all sorts of spell s and could not speak about what had been confessed to him; he could only absorb and feel the emotional pain in Sauron’s stead.

\---

“There are times when I know he will be lost...Lost in his stubbornness, too blinded by his hatred and lust for the Silmarils to see that this is the war where we lose...” he said once.

“But once, long, long ago, he was the most admirable person I had known. He, with such a great potential, unjustly discarded, mistreated...” and he told the Elf of Melkor’s abilities, of his history, in such a fine detail, true as it was.

“He once had the vision of creating the most splendid things. He had been made for great deeds, but was yanked back like a dog on a leash...Blinded so much by his fury, his desire and inability to dominate others led him to his initial madness, and now, the urge to destroy...”

“Young as I was, I strongly believed I could help him in his endeavors to make things, but now most of my skills again lay wasted, unused...”

Never in his life had the Elf seen so much love and devotion in one person, as day after day, month after month, Sauron spoke and he cried and screamed in pain in his stead.

“The accursed Silmarils...”

“ Lúthien Tinúviel...” spoken with as much hatred as it was possible. 

And his lover could do so little to alleviate all the accumulated anger and frustration. They wildly made love, but in vain. As the time passed, the Elf’s love for Sauron increased as much as the burden he had been cursed to bear, making him be on the brink of ending his own life. Unable to talk about it and offer advice, if he had any to give, did not help the matters. Trapped and alone was he, as Sauron selfishly consumed him and exacted his punishment. But even so, he could not bring himself to proceed and finally end this torment. Sauron’s kind of torture. The one he loved the best. 

“I know of his dark passions and his devouring gaze; when he ate me with his lustful, crazy eyes, and as I danced, I too enraptured by him—but he chooses instead to compare me with himself, to speak of me as his son... for he must be thinking of Aulë and I as bad father figures and misunderstood sons—which we are not, and neither are Eru and he. If we all became from Eru’s thought, then all of us are brothers and sisters. Which would still imply incest—an abomination—henceforth present among the sinless Valar, yet which he refuses to embrace.”

Often he spoke madly and broke things, and sometimes his lover feared he would fall into insanity. Sauron spoke more informally and more than he would ever speak under regular circumstances, and he spoke his mind for the first time freely and with such toxicity it made him appear almost human. 

The Elf knew what Sauron was after, and knew he regretted it. He did not like it, but nevertheless acknowledged this byproduct of his time spent with Melkor. At first attracted to his mind, then trapped. The stature. The beauty. His vision. All falling into ruin now. 

“The scars made by Fingolfin, the limp, the charred hand...It was all gone from his mind long enough...long enough to forget himself...lose himself in the dance which was not mine, and was by people who wished him nothing but ill... Lúthien Tinúviel,” he hissed and emphasized her name as though he was addressing her like a cruel judge about to deliver his verdict, “the treacherous whore...”

“What purpose does his brilliance serve, when he was quick to yield to madness, greed, and lust?! When I was, at best, just a fortunate turn of tides, not even his first choice!” he roared, “But Ossë...”

For all this the Elf sobbed quietly, miserable in his awareness that nothing he did could be reassuring to his lover, even for a mere moment. 

“Too bad,” Sauron said once,” that you are not a Noldorin Elf that I am fucking, so I can see his face become even madder.”

But evil ears were everywhere and, after a long year of Sauron’s confessions, his secret finally reached his master Melkor, which with itself brought a drastic change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance if Sauron seemed a bit out of character, but for this purpose I found his behavior kind of appropriate. And I kind of feel guilty that the Elf was just a commoner...
> 
> I do hope people are reading this not only because of Angbang smut and all, but to those who are reading because of it, do not fret, it will come very soon. Sooner than you think. :)


	4. The Recollection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some smut now. Hope you enjoy!

There was nothing at the moment that could subdue his wrath. His most trusted servant was holding in captivity—and sharing intimacy with—no other creature than an Elf himself. His mind was frantically looking for reasons why Sauron would do such a thing. Was he plotting betrayal? Was this his desire to offend him? If the latter was his intention, Melkor furiously thought, then he had surely succeeded in this endeavor. He was seething with anger as he was listening to the final reports on this particular conduct of Sauron’s.

His insides were raging with fury slightly less intense than he would have felt normally at the mention of his enemies or the news of a lost battle. Though despite his rash nature, a part of him managed to stay sane enough to wonder about the reasons behind such betrayal. Had it been anyone else, perhaps, this would have lead to execution, with no questioning issued. But his temper, luckily, had been mild before he received the news, and currently, also, he held Sauron in favor. But this as somebody he trusted most. This was somebody most capable and somebody who had learned a great deal from him. His brilliant disciple. And so, instead of unleashing his wrath thoughtlessly, dissipating the little energy and power he had been left with, he decided to hear him out. To allow him to explain himself, and hence he summoned Sauron to the throne room together with his newfound pet. 

The corrupted Maia did not lower his head upon entering, nor was he being insolent. It was this stature that did not directly express humility which had earned admiration from Melkor. Unlike the majority of things the Dark Lord perceived hurriedly and superficially, he saw through this demeanor and knew of the humility his right hand harbored in his heart instead. And he was pleased. 

Behind Sauron stood an insolent figure of an unknown Elf. He certainly was a beautiful sight to behold, but Melkor knew his lieutenant enough to conclude that pretty looks could not make him commit sacrilege of their dwelling for something so petty.

His dark crown stood high and proud upon his brow; meticulous straight strands of hair falling from either side of his face, reaching below his chest, as he sat upon his throne. His look was dark and menacing, yet he himself was surprisingly calm. Sauron bent his knee before him, once again, as so many times before, while respect began overflowing his being and negating all other feelings. The Elf stood still, refusing to bow. Melkor let him, to Sauron’s utter surprise.

“Tell me now, what is this atrocity, exactly, Sauron?” he inquired.

“He is just a pastime, my Lord.”

“Oh?” Melkor raised his eyebrows. “And could it not be a Man, or Orc, or Dwarf? But an Elf, if there is a thing that I abhor more than them?” His voice was calm and even, yet the pressure of it seemed crushing to Sauron’s ears. 

“Did you intend this as some kind of an insult, or defiance, perhaps?”

“Nothing of the sort, my liege, I assure you,” said his servant humbly.

“Then why, pray tell?”

“He is but of a personal use to me.”

“I do not see he is a regular Elf prisoner. He is rather neat-looking for that. Do you know, Sauron, who we are waging the war against? Which majority of people?”

“Elves, my Lord Melkor.”

“Elves. And here you are, laughing right into my face, are you not? He could be a spy for all we know and I learn that he is even warming your bed! With that sort of intimacy, I can only assume he knows everything there is to know about his enemy.”

“My Lord...”

“You even dared to go as far as Doriath to fetch one of these!”

“He is not, my...”

“Do you intend to tell me you have one of the Vanyar, Sauron? Did you go as far as that?!”

“If you would allow me to speak, Lord,” the dark Maia tried again to explain himself and this was granted to him, finally, and thus he began with the origins of his companion. Shortly he debated whether he should mention the resemblance to Eönwë or not. He was of the opinion that it could be of little importance to his master, and even the slightest hint of emotions and personal affairs would be brushed off as well. They were not friends, after all, who confided in each other, and Sauron was acutely aware of it. But this time, mentioning something personal might be essential in proving he intended no treason.

“I do not care who he resembles,” came a brisk reply. “And his detachment with the others does not change the fact to whose race he belongs. I do not see him in shackles. He is not even humbly bowing in front of me.”

The lieutenant turned toward the person whose presence had been ignored until now and told him quietly to kneel.

“Do you indeed think he would obey if you do not introduce some sort of punishment?” he heard Melkor say behind him. He turned to face him.

“And now you are at a loss for words. Did you yield to love, perhaps? Did I overestimate you?”

But instead of Sauron, the reply came from behind him. With horror did he realize the curse had been limited to his chambers only. The Elf boldly stepped closer, yet did not address the Dark Lord, but his lieutenant instead. To him, the only reality lay in the countenance of Aulë’s best smith.

“Do you see how little he treasures you? Do you not see it, master?” desperately inquired he, reaching for Sauron’s sleeve, but deciding against gripping it. 

“Shut your mouth, you fool!” Sauron hissed, now suddenly aware how much it would cost him if his lover said anything more. But his warning did little to stop the Elf, who continued.

“Do you not see you are but his instrument he misuses so?”

“Oh,” interjected Melkor, “it talked. What does it want to convey?” curious now and thinking that this way would be easier to understand the intentions of his second in command, he allowed the Elf to speak further, to Sauron’s utter humiliation. 

“This can never provoke jealousy in him, you know. And I think you know it better than anyone. You are too intelligent to fall victim to such follies, “the Elf pleaded with his eyes, with his voice, and word. And Sauron, as if forgetting where he was, replied, “So what do you suggest? That I leave him?” his eyes were trained on his slave and reflected a degree of sadness. The Elf wanted to say yes, but leaving Melkor was not a simple matter, nor would Sauron stoop so low as to leave the greatest being in Arda for a commoner. Anybody would be, naturally, aware of this and the Elf’s degree of empathy allowed him to stop hoping. Everything he said now was his investment into Sauron’s well being. He realized just then how much of a genius his lover was, turning sympathy into a thing of torture and ruin. Long they remained looking at each other, his love and pride too great to even acknowledge the mighty presence of the man now known as Morgoth. But the latter’s voice was strong enough to break the spell, as it reverberated through the room.

“I see some unresolved issues here,” spoke Melkor, ”which you, in fact, have with me, Sauron. And you, Elf, are a fool enough to think you would matter in any way,” his words were dark and full of disdain. “Your words will not reach him for his fate is closely tied to mine and I decide what befalls him,” he turned his gaze toward his lieutenant and addressed him,” And today you are in luck I am in good humor for talking.” 

“Such a tiny thing, you,” his attention was now turned toward the Elf again, as he was becoming impatient to end this, “a speck of dust in the schemes of things. Your kind will not be mentioned in the books of history. The altruism of my army, or more importantly, your name. Your noble sacrifice for a young servant of Melkor will remain between these walls and you will never emerge from here neither alive, nor as a hero.” 

Though his threatening words did not touch the unwavering heart of the Elf, who anticipated death anyway. “But the name of Lúthien Tinúviel will be heard, and only of your weakness will people know. The reason you lost a gem the whole world covets, “he said spitefully. “You should be and you are the object of scorn among your people, and especially your lieutenant.” 

This much Melkor was prepared to handle, and no more than that. He was now, however, unlike earlier, showing signs of anger. His face convulsed unnaturally, as he was gripping his staff with more force than usual. “I shall have no more of this! Even if it were so, my dear guest, you are of no influence in any of the events. You cannot have him. You cannot turn him against me. Any person who thinks they are stronger and mightier than me, is nothing but a fool,” with this, he extended one arm in the direction of the Elf, forcing him backwards and binding him with the invisible forces. “You cannot do anything about anything,” came the cold, final word. 

Now Melkor approached Sauron slowly, inspecting him with his unforgiving eyes. “What is it that you desire from me? Have I been so terrible to you?”The Maia lowered his head, and it was a sight to behold. For such a powerful being to lower his head so readily and guiltily, it took plenty of courage. And no reply came. “Tell me, have I ever scolded you?” without waiting for a reply, he continued,” And trust me, I should have, for you have lost Tol Sirion! But I did not, now did I? And that is only one thing of many.”

“Indeed you did not and I apologize,” quietly said Sauron. “It is just in the recent events, that we do not hold counsel any longer, especially not with the other generals. We are steadily losing this war.” Melkor was taking in the picture of his lieutenant slowly and thoroughly. “And everybody is afraid to even speak to you, given the circumstances.”

“Even you?” the Dark Lord said in disappointment. “Are you indeed such a coward to talk about me behind my back, to some lowly creature? Why not seek my counsel? Why compromise our position?”

“That, my Lord, was never my intention. The Elf would have died eventually, for he was undergoing the torture technique I developed long ago,” Sauron was speaking quietly and slowly, unhappy with the situation he was in. It was extremely difficult for him to create such sentences that would convey what he thought without angering Melkor. “And I am afraid the agitation you are being subjected to due to the burns and recent wounds inflicted upon you, would only worsen the matters, had I come to you.” 

“And what else?” Melkor asked, though he already knew the answer. “Is it about the crown? I know it irks you. It has been the thorn in your side for a very long time now, if memory serves me well. The lust for the Silmarils is not present in you, and you disapprove of them entirely. You are in need of telling me how much of a fool I had been, being seduced and lulled into sleep, now are you not? I know you well enough to read that much from you. And so you think your efforts into persuading me to listen to reason would be but fruitless attempts, like talking to a wall,” his tone was slow and steady, smooth like the finest of milk. And Sauron listened and agreed, though still he dared say not a word. 

Melkor was now closer to him than he ever remembered, and the heat of his breath was upon his forehead, for he still did not lift his head. “But what angers you most, perhaps, is that I do not pay any heed to you at all...Yes, Sauron, all the walls in this dwelling have ears and I know of everything you have ever uttered to anyone. . . You think that you have outsmarted me, but I am always a hundred steps ahead of you. Even though you are the thing fashioned after me, you have such a long way to go before you become even a hundredth of what I am... You desire me. You always have, yet never have I quenched that thirst in you,” a gloved hand took Sauron by the chin and lifted his head. He was now confronted with the bewitching eyes of Melkor, and his scarred, but still beautiful, countenance. The Dark Lord’s lips ghosted over his, like a promise of great things that would yet not come. “I understand that need, but we are in the middle of a very long war. Your thoughts are needed here, and not elsewhere. Your pastimes and your desires do not matter. I put you here to be the commander of Angband, and not stray in your thoughts, especially if it will hinder your judgment.” 

But the hand lingered in the air, gripping his chin, while the other wandered boldly, undoing his upper garments. Under the cold touch of the much desired glove, Sauron involuntarily shivered. Melkor smirked victoriously, pushing him gently against a pillar. His body was vulgarly close to Sauron’s now, as the hand wandered, undoing the buttons and laces in agonizingly slow intervals. The torture of anticipation, his own device, now turned against him, as the shivering intensified. This much was enough for the one who waited for centuries for such an opportunity, to make him aroused beyond what he had experienced before with anyone. It felt like reaching the pinnacle of what his body and his heart sought at once. And now both gloved hands wandered and inspected first his toned chest, as the scrutinizing eyes of Melkor took in every freckle, every pore and bulge, every uneven movement caused by the subdued breathing, verging on frantic. And when the hands reached his abdomen, they abruptly stopped.

Melkor’s eyes suddenly widened and he gasped. Through his gloves he could feel the ancient power and enchantment that had taken place in the planes of Grinding Ice, so long ago. The entry point of the power he had given Sauron that day. And the lovely, mesmerizing dance that made the time stand still, together with all life and death. And then he suddenly withdrew his hands, trying to mask the shock on his face.  
“You know what to do with him, “ he told Sauron and looked at the bewildered Elf, who had been watching this exchange, “He is no longer fit to be a slave,” with that, he left the room tall and graceful as always, and cruel in his conduct. The Elf saw the change in Sauron now. The eyes that entirely changed the way they shined and gave off that familiar feeling. Far from being insane or lobotomized, this look seemed to be the genuine one, as the Elf watched in them systematic deletion of all emotion and memory they used to share. To the Maia now, he was just a hindrance of his lord. And soon enough, as Sauron approached him, he took his dagger and heartlessly, with empty, expressionless eyes, stabbed the Elf once, effectively, right into his heart.  
___

Now Melkor was in deep turmoil about the event that had occurred earlier that day. The sensation which he was able to feel even through his gloves and charred skin of his hands refused to leave him. Tonight it felt suffocating for any kind of productive work, let alone sleep, to be done in the deepest pits where his chambers were. Instead, he had opted for the upper dwellings he rarely frequented. The room was smaller, overlooking nothing in particular, save for the fumes of never tiring peaks of Thangorodrim. In deep thought he lay there, suddenly calling into memory the magnificent dance in the fields of Helcaraxë, performed by Sauron, who had been, at that time, named Mairon. He recalled in detail, the choir and the music, and the shackles of ice around the well-shaped ankles of the dancer. He was moving harmoniously and seductively as the song progressed, summoning cold and rain and eternal winter upon the foes of Melkor. So engrossed in the dance was he, that he felt the currents of winds cocooning the dancer and him. In those few precious moments, it appeared as if they stood still amidst the world that moved about and lived on, yet Mairon danced fiercely and as if possessed, while he watched. It seemed at that time everything was about just the two of them: tacit agreements, secrets, and promises, in each of Mairon’s movements and his own discreet nodding of the head. The essence of love and connection poured into several moments of brilliance, where, had he only known, he could have given Mairon everything the latter wished for, and more; the very flesh and bone in exchange for his; the unyielding affection that refused to subside. And the moment had been, at last, crowned by the initiation, the transfer of power through affection, right through the Maia’s navel. And then it perished. That day, after many ages of lunacy and pain, Melkor finally summoned into his consciousness the desire for his lieutenant, which had lain dormant and neglected. 

Disturbed, he ran to the hall in front of his chamber and called for Sauron in an urgent voice the guards and servants were terrified and immediately alert. And in a few unusually long moments, his servant was there, confused and concerned. Without so much as a hungry look, Melkor rushed in his direction, crushing their lips together, while forcefully closing the door behind them. Though caught by surprise, the Maia never succumbed to his bewilderment, but kissed back, giving into his urges. Soon Melkor was tearing clothes from him, and this gave Sauron enough courage to do the same with his master’s, exploring everything that reached his palms. 

The kisses were wet, hungry, and shameless, bordering on vulgar on Sauron’s part. Still, being less experienced than him, Melkor was keeping up with the pace, impatiently biting his lips, regardless of the force he invested into it. He was tearing Sauron’s lips apart, wishing to insert his tongue the deepest he could, to suck the essence of everything that represented his right hand. And his second in command forgot all reason, allowing his hot, wandering tongue to follow the motion of Melkor’s, and to wrestle with it not for dominance but for stimulation. And soon enough their loins were set ablaze. With force did Melkor remove Sauron from his lips and with the power of his burned hand, forced him to kneel, holding a handful of blond hair tightly. The Maia was more than eager to oblige, taking the already wet member into his mouth as if the end of the world were nigh. 

Greedily did Sauron encircle the member of his master, himself feverish and delirious, almost deprived of consciousness and led only by the sheer instincts and will of his body. He gripped it tightly with his mouth, as the mighty hand pulled tightly at his hair, almost forcefully, pushing him forward and pulling him backward. He sucked to the very end of his throat like women whom he had turned into whores, convulsing the muscles to create the tightness and friction. Tears kept trickling down his cheeks out of excitement, happiness, and joy, as he choked on the long-imagined but until now not seen member of his master. 

Soon Melkor lost interest in that and threw him at the broad desk the room contained, was atop of him now, inspecting everything like he had done earlier, and resting his eyes and hands and lips on his toned abdomen, awakening the memory of Helcaraxë, revering and ravishing the flesh and skin, in search of his power and the time long past. At this, Sauron realized what Melkor was after, he himself remembering the splendor of that time and the moment that could never be recreated, for it would be a blasphemy of it. Deeply did he mourn it, realizing it could never be the same, never achieved by any means whatsoever. Irretrievable from the clutches of time. But the time for such pondering did not last, for he was now forcefully being pushed toward the open window, where from the darkness emerged the treacherous Moon.

Under its light, Sauron tightly wrapped his legs around the eager Melkor, as he mercilessly rammed into him, with little consideration for the preparedness of his rear, and was holding him firmly with his scorched hands, lest he fall from the window. In return, Sauron was holding him tightly by the forearms, arching his back and holding his master’s hips tightly with his strong legs. His long blond hair was dangling above the cold abyss, as he groaned and moaned in delight of pain mostly. His erotic cries could be heard as far as Hithlum, or so it was how he liked it to be, while Morgoth, the dark, monstrously strong and insane Vala, the force of the world, the King of the whole entire Arda, the fallen one, was thrusting deeply, viciously, into him. The feeling of pain was amazing, and to the Maia it felt like pleasure. And indeed it turned into one when Melkor learned of the spot that the other liked, by accident. 

Soon the whole event gained a note of sadness, and now Sauron was no longer in ecstasy, and his cries subsided. His master and he were slowly building their climaxes in terrible silence filled with sporadic sighs and heavy breathing on both sides, and the moment turned somber. Then Sauron found his release, shaking terribly, holding onto Melkor with all that he had. And Melkor in return, with the last two short breaths released his seed into him, emotionlessly and mechanically, he too, shaking in the aftermath. 

On his feet again he was, lightly leaning against the dark Vala, avoiding to look at his face, choosing instead to concentrate on the damp strands of black hair from which protruded one pointy ear. Then, having regained his breath at last, Melkor said, “I remembered your birth today. It was such a merry an occasion,” to which Sauron’s eyes widened, and then narrowed again, in resignation. He was not his master’s child, nor he would ever be held in greater regard that could win them a war, nor would he ever be called lover by the loveless Dark Lord.


	5. Disciplining Sauron

As the night progressed and the fumes hid the Moon, the entire room was now in thick darkness. Still, the ever shining eyes could easily see through it. Nothing could interrupt this moment of calmness, where the whole fortress slept soundly, and he could only hear the sounds of his master’s muffled breathing. He was sprawled on top of him now, and in deep slumber was he, softly breathing into Sauron’s neck. In this darkness, his mighty presence seemed like a huge, powerful monster, with those broad shoulders and every muscle well-toned and in place. The Maia could feel every part of his rough but refined skin, the material of the Valar, but firmer; the skin that had endured so much torture and so much peril. There was nothing left for Sauron to do other than absorb the image of his lord, of the man he deeply loved, while playing with a stray strand of long, black hair. 

In deep thought he was, contemplating what had occurred earlier and trying to calculate all the situations that could be derived from such an event. With a certain tone of sadness he inaudibly released a sigh, thinking that this all was temporary; that his lord, inexperienced as he was, would use him like this on many an occasion until he grew tired of him and found somebody else, or grew tired of the whole idea of intercourse altogether, and abandoned it. Even he himself had experienced such a surge of lust when he begin his explorations of carnal desire back in the day, and ever since then, his urges were a part of him, but were not his preoccupation. The duty of his heart was to endure all of this. It was his duty to prove his loyalty to the being that now had become his entire world, and the goal of this being his sole purpose of existence. 

On top of him, the sleeping Melkor looked like a dragon, big and dangerous, under the spell of slumber, and Sauron relished in his weight. The Dark Lord shifted his weight slightly and, slowly waking from his dreams, lifted his head. It was such a rare sight to behold; the dreamy face of his lord and master, making him, for a moment, reminiscent of the times long past, long before the Music. Almost desperately and in great need did he seek the lips in the darkness, to bestow the kiss on his lieutenant and bind his soul yet again to the chains of torture. And surely, the moments of bliss and pleasant numbness of his body were taken away from him, and restlessness engulfed him, as Melkor finally locked their lips in a deep, long kiss. The burned hands were brought to Sauron’s face, cupping it, while Melkor was pressing into him with his entire body, in need of this warmth the other body provided so generously. This beautiful, firm body of his lieutenant that gave so much comfort and relieved all his accumulated stress.

The Maia used this opportunity to enjoy the company of his master as much as he could muster, for it might be his only chance to do so. Now tangling his fingers into the rough black hair of his beloved, he felt the firmness of his skull, the tangibility of Melkor he had never thought about or experienced; the skin under his fingers, the bone underneath, that beautiful texture and shape. The nethermost part of his palm had caught a bit of the Vala’s divine ears, as he pressed his mouth to his firmer, penetrating with his tongue deeper. Morgoth grunted in surprise and pleasure, as he pressed his body harder against Sauron’s, black hands wandering his body now, exploring its immaculate firmness, the sides, the muscle-coated ribcage, the enticing hips, the strong thighs. This time he grunted with displeasure, for the burns on his hands made them useless and rid of most of sensation. He could not feel properly and it hurt terribly. Sauron noticed the voice of discomfort and was quick to realize what was ailing his master. This he saw as an opportunity to assert himself in the game of desires, and he forcefully pushed him off and placed him on his back. Melkor did not have the chance to protest, for in the distorted half-dawn of Angband, he could discern Sauron’s features enough to feel even more aroused. His stature, the figure looming over him now wildly straddled him and placed a vulgar kiss upon his parted lips, then moved downward, to kiss and tease the skin of his jaw, down his strong, muscular neck, playing with the Adam’s apple in a tantalizing way. 

Melkor’s breathing now became unsteady, verging on heavy, as his lieutenant slid lower to bite at his collarbones, then his muscular chest; the very idea of him descending lower and lower every moment was filling his stomach with anticipation and more arousal. His nether regions were raging with unquenched fires, as his manhood stood still and proud and firm, aching and throbbing. Sauron went lower now, to kiss the firm muscle of his stomach, dipping his hot wet tongue in his navel, in a slow, teasing, swirling motion. The Dark Lord gripped his hair and threw back his head in pleasure. Through the veil that his hair had made, Sauron watched and delighted in Melkor’s discrete writhing, in his attempts to muffle his moans, sighs, and grunts. He smirked as he went lower, to finally fill his hungry mouth with the essence of his lord. 

He looked at the swollen flesh with wide open eyes, wasting not the time, but immediately devoted himself to the task of tasting it. The tip of his tongue touched the tip of Melkor’s manhood, examining the taste of the residual dried semen that left the taste and smell sweet in the nostrils and sweet on his tongue. He tapped the tip quickly several times, to agitate the nerves further. His lord was looking at him now, in shock, and their eyes met. The predatory look in Sauron’s eyes that he had not seen previously, now promised great many things, and the Vala was very much pleased. But even when the Maia took him in his mouth, the delightful sensation did not last long, for Sauron, though regretfully, abandoned his member. The nature of such conduct was initially unknown to Morgoth, until his second in command impaled himself on his hardness, which was now properly wet. 

He would remember the look on Sauron’s countenance long afterwards; his face twisted in joy, as he steadied himself, his left palm resting on Melkor’s stomach, the other on his side. Then he set himself in motion, rhythmically and slowly, but tight enough to make the experience intense for the Vala. This way he could provide himself with as much pleasure as he needed, seeing from the first intercourse how little his lord cared. Perhaps he was being a bit harsh in this judgment, but he had to seize this opportunity and turn it to his advantage as much as he could. Morgoth’s hands were on his sides now, caressing him; the roughness of the incinerated skin setting him even more ablaze; this scratching sensation symbolized Melkor’s pain and failure, and his remoteness to all emotion. The hands he took in his own, with eyes closed, hips keeping the rhythm, and brought them to his sides, then his chest, caressing himself with his master’s hands, as Morgoth watched, enchanted. His beautiful servant relished in something he hated most; he had never thought of his hands as something that could ever again be useful, but here he was to prove him wrong and take delight in the smell and feel of burned flesh. Now Sauron brought the hands to his neck, then his lips, eyes still closed firmly, as if he were dreaming. This, Melkor found sorrowful.

He allowed Sauron to do with his fingers as he willed, and so he did, kissing them, licking them, putting them inside his wet mouth, encircling them with his palate and his tongue, wary of the teeth. The taste of them sour in his mouth, awoke both arousal and sadness within the Maia. He rode his master, repeatedly touching the sweet spot within himself that brought him most pleasure, and was releasing muffled moans. And then his pace increased; his head fell back as he arched his back, like a graceful animal, entranced and blind, rid of senses to everything else but that one spot. The pace was fast and uneven now, shaking the bed, hitting that spot ravenously, angrily and hard, until Morgoth, insane with pleasure himself, took him by the hips and started thrusting from below, doubling the pleasure for both, fueled by Sauron’s sweet expressions and his struggle with the moans. Soon sighs filled the room, and the sound of heavy breathing, and the smell of sweat, amounting to the odor of poisonous, suffocating fumes from Thangorodrim’s peaks. 

There was only one instance where Sauron was fortunate, and that was Melkor’s preference to see his face, and not avert his head, like a virgin of Men, vulgar and inexperienced, idiotic and selfish; for the only point of reference for his fantasies came from Sauron himself, since he had only seen him performing the lewd acts. To this, Sauron was grateful and relieved, and now he opened his eyes to exact his techniques on his master; to bury his look into his very flesh. This had not escaped Melkor, and it thrilled him more, as he forcefully brought down his servant for a kiss, and then was cruelly bitten on the lips. This earned Sauron a strong slap on the cheek, the strength of which came all the way from Morgoth’s shoulder, and it sent him to the side, the pain flashing before his eyes, and his entire side of his face in burning pain. Then Melkor, in rage, turned him over on his back and spread his strong legs apart, looming over him menacingly and thrusting mercilessly and forcefully, ramming himself as deep as he could. He saw haze ghost over Sauron’s eyes, now fixated somewhere behind him, as he lay and sighed frantically, his muscles convulsing involuntarily. He licked his dry lips, then bit the lower one, as his master brought him to brutal heights of pain and joy. A rough hand grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at Morgoth’s face, and he obeyed, obscuring love, forfeiting it, accepting it, only to discard it again. For he must not see. He would not be able to accept it, or even understand it. He had forfeited it himself, and forgot about it, to become this powerful and filled with hate and fear. 

Finally Melkor found his release, filling him up to the brim again, and he tightened to contain it all and feel it deep inside himself. Panting and exhausted, he reached for his aching member, but was stopped by Melkor’s forearm, and now he felt the wetness of his mouth envelope his length. As the day came, he was able to see his master better now, and feel him, as he worked sloppily but stubbornly, his jaw aching, but still, relentlessly he pursued Sauron’s orgasm and elicited it from him. Now his mouth was filled with a strange taste of semen, and he inspected it with utmost curiosity. The Maia was watching him from below, contented, placid, again feeling the tingling in his extremities as sleep threatened to overwhelm him. But as he was closing his eyes, a deep, dark voice spoke from far away. “Now that your wanton nature has been tamed, I hope you will no longer bring us any Elf-trouble.” He felt the bed creak beneath Melkor’s weight, as he was climbing out of it. He heard rustling of the clothes, then the emptiness of the room and silence of the early morning was all that he could comprehend. Offended by his lord yet again, held in high regard but also underestimated, he felt sordid in an undesirable way. And thus his misery only extended its roots inside of him.


	6. Separation

After that rather peculiar night, Morgoth did not lay a finger on him. Sauron reasoned that the Dark Lord had finished with him, and that it had been merely some sort of a lecture his master wanted him to learn. He had wanted to subdue his servant, in order to prevent him from making the same mistake again—lying in the sheets with Elves he abhorred. It did not come as a surprise to the Maia that his master had been taken over by paranoia the moment he returned to Angband. The Silmarils that had been built into his heavy metal crown were the culprits of this, for, even though his master had been infested with hatred and malice ever since he had set foot on Arda’s soil and behaved recklessly, dissipating his power, the Silmarils now brought forth new layers of instability and insanity. 

Yet still he intended no harm, no treason. He had sworn and he would keep his word and put all his efforts into Melkor’s cause. To live to see the greatest being in existence and talk to him, to bring into existence all that he had previously imagined, presented a great honor in itself. And he was making sure that with every gesture he honored the man he adored and served. 

Little did Sauron know, however, that he was in the wrong, for every moon that passed, Melkor would choose a day of his liking and take him fiercely whenever and wherever he found it suitable. So it happened on one occasion that he had found his lieutenant in the forges and approached him from behind on light feet, embracing him. He would remove garments from both of them just enough to make room for penetration. He would be rough and quick to finish. Then he would leave.

At other times he would take his time in the rooms of the smithy, where Sauron liked to rest after a long day’s labor of making countless weapons for Morgoth’s vast army. That room was small and stuffy with the smell of sulfur, containing a narrow bed. There would Sauron lie naked and dirty beneath his lord, with his head buried sideways in a pillow, which was damp from sweat. The fingers of their left hands were entwined, grasping together the crown with the two Silmarils; the grip so strong their hot black blood was trickling down their hands and onto the sheets. It was a courtesy of Melkor to even consider removing the crown from his head, but he deemed it a good compromise to leave it in near proximity, still connected to his body. Of such an honor Sauron often thought and deemed it misplaced, for Melkor was never eager to make compromises for others. The price of this would probably come afterward, oft he thought.

The dark Vala would take his time with his lieutenant and take in the sight of the back below him; the coats of sweat over his broad back covered in dust and dirt; the sweat of the intercourse mixed with the one from hours upon hours of hard work—all in the name of His greatness; the smell and taste of metal. There were damp strands of hair on the back of Sauron’s neck, and this is where Melkor liked to indulge his senses and taste that metallic aroma of the skin and inhale its fragrance. The air of such masculinity deeply aroused him. His thrusts were lazy, slow, but deep and intense.

Upon such occasions Sauron was usually considerably exhausted and unable to partake as much as he might have wanted to. It almost appeared as if Melkor was taking into consideration how strenuous the work in the smithy was—but that would only fool the eye of a layman, for Sauron knew his master exquisitely well. It was not out of consideration that he was slow and thorough (still rough and heavy), but out of desire to absorb the heat of his Maia and delight long in the thought that Sauron was in such condition because of his unyielding loyalty. Afterward, they would dress in the crushing silence and part their ways. 

Sauron was aware that this ‘subduing’, this suppression of desires that ‘threatened Angband’s integrity and safety’ was only a pretext Melkor had made himself to believe, whereas his own interests in the conducts of lust were the actual cause. As for him, what could he do when what was supposed to feel good felt agonizing and sad, almost pitiable; it felt more punishing than rewarding—to be taken in such fashion and discarded, not out of malice even, because for most part Melkor’s way of torturing him was not intentional. Yet still he relished in the warmth and force of his master, even though, in truth, Morgoth, as of late, seldom sought to look at his face while being intimate with him.

It came as a surprise how exhausting and distracting all of it was, making him feel ashamed and brooding, disgusted with himself and his emotions. In his opinion, it was not supposed to be like that and he relentlessly fought against such weaknesses. In the game in which he was losing, he of course felt powerless and overwhelmed. Melkor’s very presence was crushing and his demeanor degrading. 

Still, being loyal to the Dark Lord and suffering from his two hands was not the same thing, and Sauron was putting all effort into never confusing them. But the words uttered in the haze of passion and heavy breathing— the two names long since forgotten together with what Melkor once was—Varda and Arien, repeated over and over, filling the stale air with nostalgia and longing of which his master was unaware. And it was this simple mention of the loves failed and passed that finally undid the reasonable in Sauron. For the form of his choosing was that of a man, and his skills were not those of the sky but rather of the ground—of metals and jewels; he did not resemble any of those mentioned and was finding himself, yet again, gravely offended by his lord. 

Melkor had long ago discarded all emotions that could hinder him, save for one—fear—and at the time it seemed wise to his servant the Maia, for fear was the one quality spirits of Melkor’s kind lacked, and this one was always of some use. Many would mistake Melkor for a weak person, a coward, but instead he feared his opponents and never underestimated them. Together they carefully chose what to do, aware of the powers of others. But his soul was barren of almost all else, of love and joy, yet his longing sighs and the way he shouted out the names of the two women that had rejected him so long ago, were not his subconscious desire to revert to what he once was—that was, in itself, impossible, Sauron mused. He did not know what it was, nor did he want to know. His mind was clouded and his thoughts feverish, and in such a state, one night, he ordered for the production to slow down in the forges, and the peaks of Thangorodrim also stopped making the fumes. 

\-----

The air felt chilly and surprisingly fresh—sickening—ghosting over his skin. It reminded him of the air he had long stopped being accustomed to, when he had been the citizen of Valinor. This sudden unpleasant feeling had woken him up from his slumber; the rough sheets scratching at his naked form as he shifted in the bed to survey his surroundings. Sauron’s lack of presence next to him was surprising, but this surprise soon disappeared, when he saw him standing by the window, engulfed in the pale starlight. It was fading before the upcoming sun. 

“Soon will young Arien outshine the works of Varda,” Sauron said, upon hearing the rustling of the sheets. “I find such a sight beautiful yet tragically sad. Do you not think so?” 

Furious, Melkor strode to where he was standing, forgetting about his limp, grabbing him by the throat, despite the pain in his hands. “You fool! Whatever it is that you were thinking, our position is now exposed to others—everything that we do can be seen!” The squeeze on the throat loosened, however, as Melkor had always been merciful when it came to his lieutenant. Sauron’s face was distorted in sick pleasure and spite, and malice, as he locked his eyes with Melkor, smiling, showing rows of sharp, white teeth. 

“I apologize for such a grave mistake, my Lord, but I have been distracted for a period of time,” he said. 

“Do not take such tone with me, Sauron! You may think you are irreplaceable, but do not hope it is so.” Finally he released him, facing away from him, and looking at the sky. It truly was mesmeric, but was something he could have admired only before the Music. Now it felt repulsive, for it was there to spite him and show him that the powers of the West were still as strong as they used to be. “Did you not swear your allegiance to me? Do I need to waste this precious time to listen to all your doubts, reassure you, and solve all the issues you might be having? This time, when we are losing—we are losing until we find the hidden kingdom of Gondolin, the last threat—this time is precious to us, and certainly more important than your petty jealousy.” His voice was low and scolding, but ruthless as he was, he could not find it in himself to physically abuse his right hand. 

Sauron humbly bowed his head now, the pulsating heat of his rage subsiding, allowing him to see clearly now, and sober up his thoughts. The feeling of shame felt overwhelming now, for he had allowed himself to behave like a mere mortal, driven by passions and emotions so easily flammable. “Yes, I did, my liege. And I would ten times over, if I had the chance. My entire existence is dedicated to your glory and your victory.”

“Do I need to ask why, then, there are no fumes coming out of Thangorodrim? Why is it this treacherous sky that I am seeing? Three times that you have failed me by now, Sauron. Two of which seem immensely like treason. But are driven by what we have abolished a long time ago now. The weakness. The mockery of self. Yet again, you are allowing yourself to be distracted and act against our cause.” 

“I understand, my Lord. And you are, as always, in the right. If I may suggest then, that we stop these nightly activities and such? For they appear to be the source of my distraction,” the Maia replied, knowing full well the consequences of such a question. Depriving himself of what, at the beginning, seemed like the realization of an impossible dream. But it could not be otherwise, for he would, despite himself, continue to err. In truth, there were many things he wanted to say, to resolve the conflict within himself with the aid of his master. He wanted to tell Melkor of how much he contradicted himself, and many more things. But was, naturally, unable to, out of respect and fear. So yet again, he humbled himself before him, like a faithful dog that he was. 

Long and hard did Melkor look at him in silence, the sun illuminating his dark skin, so that half of him was still in darkness, only a silhouette. Bare they stood before each other, and some would say exposed, but the two Ainur were never the bodily beings but spirits, and neither had ever seen each other in such a form. But even this much could be called intimate and exposed, for not many, or none at all save for himself, had been allowed to see Melkor disrobed. 

“Very well then,” he said, but it did not resonate with him. “I shall grant this. So that no more mistakes happen. But should they happen despite all this, terrible things will indeed befall you,” he said solemnly and meant it. “Now make sure the fumes keep going up, before it is too late.” And Sauron obeyed, quickly donning his robes, breaking this air of closeness. Melkor watched him with unforgiving eyes, his every step, his every curve and motion, trust slowly dissipating. Little did he know, at the time, that Sauron would bring him the most treasured prisoner soon, who was no other than Maeglin, son of Aredhel of the house of Fingolfin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arien--the fire spirit, as you all probably know is the bearer of the sun. But in another version of Tolkien's legendarium, she was a love interest of Melkor, who wanted to marry her. Because she didn't want to be with him, he ravished her--what exactly does that mean I don't know, he either raped her or killed her--either way she 'died'. I allowed myself to modify this; I mixed the official version with this alternate version--he did want her, but didn't ravish her. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you liked this chapter. And a hint--blood, rape, and gore in the next chapter.


	7. What He Feels, it Transcends Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys, for such a late update! I had the idea going on in my head for a while, then a personal tragedy struck me, which delayed the update even further. My aunt I've been living with (she was like a second mother to me, my real one died last year) passed away suddenly three weeks ago. Her sister, my other aunt, was in surgery today because of some complications and this is the only way I am able to keep myself occupied and in check. 
> 
> Blood and gore parts had been written way before I could even imagine what would befall my family, so it was not inspired by it in any way. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the chapter!

Maeglin was now captured and held in the cell of the smallest torture chamber in the hot heart of Angband, deep below. Yet Sauron demanded to attempt diplomacy with the Elf which appeared fairly unreasonable to Melkor. He was not an envoy sent to negotiate, nor was there any need for negotiating. But Sauron persisted and assured him it would be beneficial for them if they used this approach. Finally, in the end, yet suspicious of his intentions still, Melkor agreed. 

“It may look like negotiation, my lord, yet is but deception, a trick,” Sauron had explained. And indeed, he was widely known to be a good deceiver and as good with his words as he was with his hammer. 

And so it came to pass that for several days Sauron paid visits to their prisoner and spent hours in long, amiable talk. Melkor feared this and feared treason more than any other time before, so he had dispatched various spies to keep an eye on his lieutenant. 

Maeglin had finally seen what others had been describing for centuries, but had not, in fact, ever seen. No Elf or Dwarf or Man had ever seen Sauron except for Maedhros, who Maeglin had never met or heard that the former said anything at all, and Beren and Luthien, who only described him as a hideous wolf and an even worse giant bat. 

But every day, on a stool, next to the bars of his cell, sat a lean but strong, tall, and manly figure. His hair was white as snow, straight, going all the way to his hips, complementing his features. The face of high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Eyes like burning furnaces, but it was not a metaphor—they had a shine like fires in the forges and Maeglin did not forget that Sauron was not of human nature, but a part of Ilúvatar himself; a divine being which, being what it was, possessed extraordinary qualities. Hi teeth were white and pointed, his fangs prominent but not too long. His robes were simple but elegant and of dark colors; the trousers black and boots to match them; teal upper garments and a long, plain cape of the same color. His demeanor was friendly and he seemed good natured even when he was smiling or laughing, showing the menacing teeth. Yet the entire picture seemed overwhelmingly uncanny and unsettling. Despite such feelings, Maeglin was still captivated by the entirety of Sauron and what he had to tell him. He mostly told about olden days and the processes of mining and crafting, which interested Eöl’s son greatly. 

“We come from the similar background,” Sauron had begun, “For Aulë my old master had created the Dwarves, and taught them all about mining, and they taught you—and they taught you well, I am told. Word about your skill reached as far as here.” And it, as planned, fueled Maeglin’s pride as a miner. “Although for most part I am a smith, I also partook in looking for metals and gems,” he would begin and talk nostalgically about Almaren and later Aman, and all the work they had done, and the mountains they created, and the mines they dug in the days of old. And the even greater mountains of Melkor. And the uninhabited, scorched land of Mordor to the East, which he admired the most. It was infertile for most part, and hot, but appealed to him most. 

Such nostalgia was in his voice and his eyes were focused somewhere far, distant, and sad. Maeglin loved his tales so much and was mesmerized by his person that he forgot to ask about his fate now that he had been captured by the enemy. Sauron’s vocabulary was rich and poetic, invoking such vivid imagery before Maeglin’s eyes. And he could not help but overstep his boundaries and ask why he had abandoned the forges of Aulë then. He expected to be punished for this, but Sauron merely replied, “Because my Lord Melkor is the same as Aulë—and even more than that. Infinitely more. What Aulë can create in a month, my lord can in a day—higher and richer and more awe-inducing. Because a mere look directed at the ground can erect a volcano of such power. And yet my lord was not allowed to fill the Void with his own creations, or at least to create life here in Arda. It is simple, really. Being in service of such power and magnificence. Being able to see as he creates history,” his face was radiant now and eyes more distant, like those of a worshipper. And all of his words reached Melkor, even such high praises of Sauron, but in his paranoia he could only hear what he had said about Almaren and his own thoughts louder than ever—hammering inside his skull as the crown got heavier and the scars burned hotter—TREASON, TREASON, TREASON.

“But do you not think that he is headed toward destruction rather than creation?” at which Sauron only abruptly stood up, giving him a hateful look unparalleled by anyone Maeglin had ever met, and left.  
***

During Maeglin’s captivity in Angband, Sauron and he had exchanged many stories and formed a bond over many things they had in common. This was the part of Sauron’s plan—to offer him friendship of somebody similar to him, and then use him as a pawn to overthrow Gondolin. Maeglin’s captivity did not last longer than several days; Sauron did not intend to keep him long, lest his disappearance cause suspicion. And little did Eöl’s son know what he was about to witness during his stay, for, on his fifth day, Melkor finally stepped forward and cruelly tortured and maimed Sauron, whom he believed had betrayed him.

They were deep into conversation that day, with Sauron’s ever delicate and elegant posture, sitting beside the bars with a straight back and modestly but tastefully clothed; hands in blisters though, and callouses he did not hide, however—the proof of him being a hard working smith; hair clean and brushed, eyes trained on him, focused, persuasive, bewitching. He had such a strong grip on Maeglin’s mind and heart that the latter never got the chance to ask (if only) himself about his fate here in Angband. Maeglin, had, without any resistance whatsoever, almost immediately, deemed him his good and trusted friend. Now there came the part Sauron had anticipated—to persuade him to give them away the location of Gondolin—the hidden kingdom—in promise of appointing him its king and making him an ally. Maeglin’s hunger for power, recognition, and company had rendered him blind, hence vulnerable. 

But just then, Melkor entered like a thunderstorm; an enormous, tall figure nothing short of grace, dark and meancing; scarred and terrible yet magnificent, wonderful, beautiful in his own right. Despite his evident wrath, he had kept enough sanity not to say a word about the nature of his anger, being vaguely aware of Maeglin’s presence. Wordlessly, he grabbed Sauron by the arm and yanked him upward, tearing clothes from him with such force, and the beautiful cloth gave way; teal and black falling in shreds on the floor. The Maia did not protest and readily waited for whatever his master wanted to do to him. And so he was pushed on the table and his wrists and ankles tightly tied in chains, Melkor looking at him from the height, his entire face anger. Yet he never uttered a sound. 

‘He does not—or cannot—understand the concept of patience,’ he thought, his back touching the cold metal of the table (an innovation he had invented), limbs stretched and already aching. Being exposed like this, being humiliated, after so many years of service, and now just as he was about to succeed in ensuring the absolute victory and dominion over all of Middle Earth, Melkor’s impatience an distrust had led him here, on this table, to be mutilated. 

And the terrible beating ensued. Morgoth’s heavy hand struck him across the face multiple times and so hard that Maeglin could hear the cracking sounds of the jaw breaking on either side, and in the midst of it a terrible laughter, so hysterical and loud—coming from Sauron—to the Elf’s horror. And Melkor did not stop, striking him across the face until he was toothless and his jaw completely shattered. And instead of screaming, Sauron laughed to preserve his honor and pride; to defy, for the first time. To disagree in that manner, to break the silence. The harder Melkor hit him, the louder Sauron laughed. The clanking sound of the teeth falling; the odor of a newly formed puddle of blood. There was so much of it in his mouth that he was choking on it, while laughing, hysteria more intense than before. Cackling and gurgling, but never dying, because he could not. Now his nose was no more. Everything for the man whose power was on the decline. For this Vala, because being a traitor twice would lead him nowhere. He would be having even less power and influence in Aman than he used to have, he thought with regret.

For a long while there was silence, and, being in great deal of pain, he was not able to discern anyone’s presence. It would have been easier just to abandon his body, but his pride was preventing him from doing so. He would endure everything Melkor would send his way, was his decision. Sauron turned his head to meet Maeglin’s eyes, and they were wide open in terror, as their owner stood unmoving, losing senses in his limbs out of fear. The Maia knew what the young Elf wanted to say—he wanted to stop this, desperately so, but his vocal chords suddenly lost their function. It was not the wrath of Melkor that frightened him to the bone but Sauron’s horrid appearance. He had no nose and instead of his jaw now lay a red and black gaping hole, and a tongue dangling freely. The laughter had stopped and they were looking at each other in silence; Sauron’s eyes still burning, his spirit not yet broken. Blood was gushing from his wound—part human, for he was in the body of one, part black, his own, corrupted and divine. 

“Change the shape,” Maeglin finally managed to whisper, weakly, “Please, leave that body!” But Sauron only closed his eyes and averted his gaze, now looking for his master to see what else he had prepared for him. His vision had been betraying him for a while now; excruciating pain ridding him of thoughts and the ability to see.

And then he felt it—cold and firm gripping of his tongue, holding it tight and pulling it out, until he realized what was taking place. The sound of detaching something from the inside of his throat—the sound of tearing the sinews, as he remembered; something he had done many times himself, to others—the feeling of pressure and detachment at the same time and a loud, snapping sound after which, immediately, pain assailed him and more blood started gushing out and the remainder pooling inside his throat and lungs. Yet he was deathless. 

“Leave this body,” Maeglin begged quietly, but nobody could hear him over the cackling and more of the disturbing, pained, and hysterical laughter. It echoed throughout the halls and the upper levels, and now a crowd began to gather and call out some Master Mairon in desperate voices, but Morgoth chased them all away, enraged by Sauron’s defiance, and turned to face his lieutenant. 

“Now you have no face, and soon will have no voice. That foul mouth of yours,” he grunted and took his tongue between his fingers, grinning menacingly. “I should have done this long ago.”

Sauron heard the steps, slow and heavy, going away from him and then coming back, and heard Maeglin’s terrified gasp, but could not see, only feel, hot water being poured down his body, which turned his laughter into shrill, desperate screams. Now even if he wanted to, he could not change shapes, for his thoughts were too much scattered and his soul trapped.

Before his now intensely red skin was able to even blister, Melkor started skinning him alive. The feeling of skin detaching from the forehead over the mangled face, and then down, being separated from his flesh—revealing all his muscles and bones. Writhing was impossible now and screaming was getting weaker by the second. Soon the entirety of his skin was tossed on the floor, leaving him truly exposed and sticky, in pain exceeding anything he could have conceived. The cool air was ghosting over his muscles, inducing more pain. But he did not falter, looking defiantly into the Dark Lord’s eyes instead, waiting for his own to be gauged out. 

This did not occur, however, and his sensitive body was now subjected to blazingly hot chains, whipping away his flesh, and he was watching as it was falling off, chunk by chunk, incinerated and odorous. Maeglin’s chin and clothes were covered in vomit, of which he was not aware. He was clutching the bars until his hands bled, and he could not avert his gaze. 

Sauron hoped with such sincerity that this all should end, but Melkor was so angry and did not plan on stopping. Instead he did something even more atrocious—he raped the tied man, this mangled corpse which could not die—thrusting deeply and mercilessly, devoid of any quality or flaw that indeed defined him as Melkor, as he tore Sauron from the inside many times over, until there was nothing but a gaping, mangled hole from which dripped liquefied bloody feces. By now, he was slipping out of consciousness, his eyes looking upward, looking at nothing.  
***

As if escaping the clutches of trance, Melkor finally perceived what he had done to the one he thought of as his son (not to be considered his heir, though, for Melkor’s dominion was his own and never to be inherited by anybody else), his most loyal and trusted subject, and how much of a fool he had been. A mangled, meaningless body and a spirit so mighty trapped inside of it, not even struggling to escape. Betrayed, by the one to whose service he had devoted his entire existence, and put all his wisdom and might at his disposal.

Maeglin could not move, eyes still wide open, burning and red from dryness. He was witness to something that yet again no one had ever seen; Melkor, terrified, was shaking violently, absorbing the image of his lieutenant. And he lifted his arms with little of his might that he still possessed and made Sauron levitate, as he went about him and examined his injuries. White, moist hair smeared with blood freely cascaded downward. With a mighty voice, Melkor called for the cleaners and they instantly appeared, washing the body quickly and efficiently before being chased away by their master. 

The Dark Vala now commenced with using his power in a way he seldom had—and healed thoroughly all the injuries his adopted son had sustained. For Melkor possessed all the powers the other Valar had, since he was the mightiest still, the firstborn. And with such amazement did Eöl’s son watch as Melkor tended to Sauron’s words with utmost care, gently and devotedly; he watched in wonder the creation of a new tongue and a new jaw and nose; the creation of muscles, tendons, and sinews, making intricate patterns and connections. A new coat of skin gracing this new creation. 

Then Melkor made the body slowly fall from the height it was on, into his arms; and it was a strange sight to behold: a grand man holding another, strong one, handsome one. “Mairon,” Maeglin heard him whisper, reluctantly, almost with reverence. Sauron’s head was resting comfortably against his shoulder, and he appeared to be asleep. With that, they departed from the torture chamber. 

“Mairon is his name,” the son of the Dark Elf whispered to himself, still flabbergasted by what he had seen. “The one they called admirable, still mighty in the lore of Aulë’s people. The Dwarves I have been with have praised him whenever I was there to visit,” he slid down and sat beside the puddle of vomit of his own making. “Yet his master called him ‘the abhorred’ all this time, whereas their servants remained respectful toward such a powerful Maia. Such disrespect!...Yet the way he held him as he trembled, and restored him, and…cherished him…” Long sat there the young Elf and wondered, until his tired head fell against the bars, and was further tormented by the nightmares of what he had seen that day. The smell of Sauron’s blood was faint, but still present.  
***

The time was of importance. Melkor had healed him just enough for his fëa to recover, in order for him to shift to another body. Sauron was not able to speak, and his body felt heavy and numb most of the time. In his dreams he often visited Almaren, the place where he spent his youth in happiness; where Eönwë and he used to be friends and lovers, sharing ideals and shaping the world. He longed for his embrace, for a kind word he thought he had long forgotten and forfeited. If he had been able to touch himself at the thought of his former lover, he would have, but the hands gave way to weariness. It appeared as if the world and time themselves were crushing upon him. 

“You seek solace in the place that is no more, nor will it ever be,” a dark figure interrupted his thoughts, and continued, calmly, “For it is not bestowed upon us to restore the past. You long for something you escaped from, from something that was limiting you in all ways. Do I have to remind you? You came to me, Mairon,” it was then that Sauron became aware of the weight on his bed, and a dark silhouette sitting at the foot of it,” And I took you in. I adopted you. Entirely by chance, but you became mine. And you served me well to this day, Mairon…But remember well that the time is passing relentlessly, for the Ainur and the Children alike. I cannot bring you back a moment of promise when you danced for me. It is the truth that brings most pain, for the glimpse of love that I felt then can never be restored. That moment can never be brought back. I believe you are aware of the fact. Every recreation would only be a disgrace of it…”a long silence ensued, and then Melkor continued, in the same tone, “I was able to feel love, as the rest of my accursed kindred, sure. But I discarded it. I unlearned how to, and I do not wish to, and cannot have it back. But I did everything in my power to nurture you well and reward you for your services. I regret that it was not what you expected it to be. For you have stayed with me, loyal and proud, through all the madness I am going through. But you shall never hear me ask for forgiveness from you. If you wish to return to Aman after this, I will not stop you.” 

The weight on the bed disappeared, and Melkor was gone. Left there to lie motionless, head turned in the direction of the door, Sauron long watched in his master’s direction.


	8. Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a late birthday present (or a gift in general) for wonderful valinwhore whose art immensely brings me joy. While valinwhore's Mairon and mine are physically completely different, I can also say that the art is still inspiring me in a way. So, without further ado, valinwhore, if you are reading this, I hope you'll like it! :) 
> 
> As for the story itself, this chapter is some sort of a transition chapter, and a lot of steamy details are left for another one. I already know what I want to put in that one, and I hope I will be able to make another update soon. :) Excuse any mistakes if there are any in this chapter and please do enjoy! :)

Maeglin was released from his prison and was now negotiating terms with Lord Melkor, who appeared to be a completely different person. He had been calm and collected, gracious even, and very generous. They had been discussing matters in the privacy of Sauron’s forges, where they admired the smith’s work.

“Sauron came to me, believing his talents would be recognized and well used, which they were. Perhaps in the beginning, he had been reluctant to betray his people, but with a little persuasion from my side, he finally agreed to be my lieutenant. A young spirit he was at that time. He was plenty knowledgeable, but there was so much he was about to learn,” Melkor began, as they stood to examine war helmets for the Orcs. They were of various sizes and shapes, indicating that Sauron had been aware of all the mutations his soldiers had been subjected to over the years of inbreeding and otherwise poorly made soldiers, for neither Melkor nor he could actually create something of their own, but rather distort what had been originally conceived in Eru’s thought. The table before which they stood carried models of each and every type of helmet, which other trained Orc and Elf-smiths had been taught to reproduce. This showed devotion of the Maia, to their subjects and Melkor’s cause. “He has served me well to this day. Even in the crucial moments when I was away, he had proven himself loyal to me. Not once had he sat on my throne while he commanded the fortress, through all the ages I had been gone. What you have seen three days back, was nothing but a settlement of our little dispute. To you, it might have looked horribly shocking, but his body can sustain much more, and it does not hurt him that much, since he is not a corporeal being,” Melkor lied cunningly and convincingly. The truth was that Sauron had been sitting on Angband’s throne ever since its creation, for it was the fortress in which he commanded, and had always been his until Melkor’s flight from Valinor. 

To this, even though power-hungry as ever, Melkor did not have any particular objection, since Sauron had done a very good job of repairing the fortress in his absence, raised vast armies, produced great many weapons, without rising suspicion of anyone in the vicinity. Such an art of disguise could only be praised, since Melkor had returned to a completely new and better fortress, ready and fully operational. The throne had been replaced with a much bigger and sturdier, grandiose black iron throne, immediately after his return. There had never been any reason to doubt his lieutenant, except several times when the accursed crown had acted on its own against his reason. That the crown had changed him for worse, Melkor adamantly refused to acknowledge. 

His words resonated oddly in Maeglin’s ears, as if trying to forcefully imprint themselves into his mind, numbing it and making it easier to believe anything. And, to him, it felt like a bird’s song was caressing his eardrums. Like several times before, completely lacking any sense of fear because both Ainur seemed extremely friendly, Maeglin dared ask a risky question.

“If you appreciate him as much as you say you do, my Lord, if I may, then why are you calling him ‘Abhorred’ instead of ‘Admirable’?”  
“Because that is his name now,” Melkor said, a little irritated by the sudden question. He hoped Maeglin would stop asking anything in addition, but he hoped in vain.

“But everybody else in this dwelling is calling him Mairon, my Lord. And also, he is not allowed to call you by your first name,” Maeglin pressed further. “Is it just to show that you can; to show how your might allows you to do anything you please? To offend the person that gives himself so freely and selflessly to your cause?” 

At this, Melkor was angry, and was desperately trying not to show it. He had, after all, ruined what Sauron was very close to getting, and now he must not ruin it again. That vital information which would give them final victory and the ultimate reign over Middle-earth. He wanted to say that it was not Eöl’s son’s place to ask such questions, he who betrayed his father, and was about to do the same to his uncle. 

“Would you like to be called Maeglin when you become the ruler of Gondolin? Or its King?” Melkor asked, “Would you have your subjects call you by your name, or your title?” Maeglin chose the latter, and Melkor continued, “Why would my people call me the Dark Enemy?” Maeglin nodded in understanding, “As for Sauron, that is his life now. I accept him by his new name, as a new person. He had been born again, forged anew, upon his arrival here. Why should he still have that atrocious name the enemy used to call him?” Melkor’s logic somehow seemed firm in the mind of the Dark Elf’s son, and he accepted it without much thought. As for the Dark Lord himself, even though he had gone to such lengths to invent such an explanation, it was not relevant at all. 

Melkor was tall and strong, but not sturdy. His straight, black hair was falling all the way down to his waist. His face looked perpetually tortured and harsh, and the scar prominent upon it, yet he did not look hideous. Proud, he was standing and suffering through all the pain in his hands, his hip and leg, and his face. His robes were long, black, and neat, boots resonating through the room as they moved to another table.  
___ Maeglin was sitting beside Sauron’s bed, watching him as the latter slept soundly. He could not remember in entirety what he had signed and said, but the promise of being supported as the new ruler of Gondolin soon clouded all else. Sauron woke up slowly and glanced over at where he sat patiently. 

“I am glad that you are feeling better, dear friend,” the Elf said. Sauron offered him a small smile, before wordlessly getting out of the bed. His movements seemed awkward and unnatural to the young Elf’s eyes, so he decided to be merciful. He covered his eyes with a cloth used to wipe his sweaty forehead, and instructed him in a forced whisper not to remove it until he said so in his clear, old voice. All that the dark haired Elf could hear soon after were the cracking sounds, followed by Sauron’s grunts and moans. It lasted for minutes and to listen to it was nauseating. The sound of something sticky coming off of a surface, or tearing even.  
He could hear the door being opened and something brought in and put on the floor. Then the sound of water being poured invaded his ears. Impatient to discover what was happening to his friend, he removed the cloth and saw Sauron, sticky and messy, getting into the tub filled with water, and his body torn apart, lying next to said tub. 

“You should have waited a bit longer, young one,” Sauron said in his usual voice, “I doubt that the sight of me molting would do you any good,” the Maia simply said. “Master repaired me well enough so that I would be able to change into a new body,” he offered an explanation. He sunk his body into the nice lukewarm water. His body, particularly skin, was still fresh and fragile, and he had to be careful. 

Long did he talk with Maeglin and congratulate him on the future title. Deep within himself he laughed at this silly, naïve boy, so easily swayed by his master’s and his influence, by flattery and a bit of magic. ‘Truly pathetic,’ he thought as he smiled and laughed with the young Elf. Soon after they released him, contentedly, inwardly laughing at the weakness of this particular Elf, for their influence on his kind had always been ever so weak. 

___

Now all of Middle-earth was his, at last. He had the habit of standing on one of the peaks of Thangorodrim, admiring the view of his own realm, together with his lieutenant. The satisfaction was complete, the taste of victory tangible in his mouth. Many years had passed since the fall of Gondolin and his victory. But Sauron had been restless ever since, fearing the retaliation of the Elves. To this, Morgoth often laughed and mocked his right hand. 

The Maia never forgot the pain he had been subjected to, utter dismemberment, rape, and humiliation. In his dreams he would often see the shores of Alqualondë, the age of his innocence, and the friendly face of his lover, the herald of Manwë. He would wake up feeling terrible longing, only to be smitten by his lord anew, forgetting all else, like he had forgotten about the Elf he had held captive so many years ago. In Melkor’s presence, it was easy to forget even the most important of things, for such was his power. But sometimes it was easy to overlook such a thing, a trifle really, in a life of someone who could not die and who could change shapes. At times, however, when the memory would resurface, deep sadness and disappointment would overwhelm his senses. 

He always lamented the fate of his master. But unlike Melkor himself, he knew his purpose, and felt sad that the Dark Lord had not realized it yet. His role in this universe was not small, and by no means unimportant. He had been sent to do the most difficult task of all, was meant to do it, because he was the strongest, ablest. And how not to be loyal to him, who had the hardest, cruelest duty of them all? He turned to look at his master, proud and worried and angry. His heart was full of love for him, as much as hatred. 

“Master,” he began again, “I implore of you to reconsider. I have sent spies among the people and they always come back with the same information—that Eärendil son of Tuor has set sail to the Undying Lands.”

“And you think that he will make it to the other side so conveniently? The Noldorin people are cursed by the Valar, and I doubt that they will forgive them for their treason,” Melkor replied.

“But what if, by some chance, they decide to listen to what he says,” Sauron persisted. “I implore of you, Master. Many years have passed and…”

“And no sign of the enemy,” Melkor interjected. “These peaks are very high, the highest. Only second to that abhorred Taniquetil. Do you think we would not see them coming?”

“We would, Lord, but too late. If you do not believe me, then perhaps we should get closer to them, so that you can see.”

“To where, pray tell? To set sail as well? To abandon my land?”

“No, my lord. But To go across Helcaraxë, close to their shores, and inspect,” Sauron insisted. 

“To Helcaraxë? So that you can easily leap across to their shore and betray me,” the Dark Lord’s tone suddenly became dark and angry. Sauron lowered his head as if he were guilty, but he did that to hide his disappointment. The burden of that crown and the madness it had brought deeply disturbed him, and he feared that he would soon lose the ability to reason with such an insane creature his master had become.

“Never, my Lord. If you do not trust me, then come with me. It should be a short trip. Just to relieve our worries,” he humbly offered. 

“And to do what? Abandon Angband? Just for you to banish your concerns?!”

“It concerns your realm, my Lord. It concerns your safety. And the safety of the people you now govern,” the blond commander was trying to sound as persuasive as he could. Melkor contemplated all what his lieutenant had said for several minutes. The silence felt unnatural and strained. The winds were howling around them, making the ends of their robes flutter. 

“Very well then, I shall adhere to your advice. Prepare everything quickly,” he said and left, abandoning the moment they both cherished—each other’s company while observing with pride the results of their hard labor. Sauron remained standing there, stoic and proud, with his legs spread and his stance stable, as the winds whipped past him. Melkor spared him one more glance before descending the steep flight of stairs leading to the fortress. 

The following morning they departed together. Sauron was now a huge wolf, worthy to be his master’s ride, and with him on his back, he ran swiftly to the northwest, and finally, across the, seemingly never ending, grinding ice. Three days it took them to get near enough to be able to see any activity that might be happening in the land of their enemies. Such was Sauron’s speed and Morgoth smirked in delight, thinking how long it had taken Fingolfin, that accursed Elf who had given him unhealable wounds, to cross this land and how many lives it had cost him. 

Finally deciding upon a place to stay, Sauron stopped, and Melkor dismounted him. He was bearing witness to the Maia’s grotesque changing into his basic, Elf-like form. The only thing that was left after such transformation was a naked man, covered in a sticky, transparent substance, lying on his side and panting in exhaustion. Melkor approached him and took the fur that his lieutenant had discarded, and with his immaculate craftsmanship turned it into something usable. 

“Take this to warm yourself,” he threw the fur at the panting Maia. Sauron took it and wrapped himself in it, as Melkor set on the ice everything he was carrying in a bag he had brought with himself. He threw Sauron’s garments and boots at him, and a piece of meat he had brought along the way. “Get yourself dressed and fed, then come show me that threat you were so adamant about,” he said coldly, slightly limping to one of the glaciers, leaning against it with his arms crossed. 

But he did not need Sauron to see with his own eyes the huge amount of smoke coming all the way behind the high mountains. He detached himself from the glacier and moved closer, looking up at the darkening sky. “They are forging their weapons,” Melkor said breathlessly. Horrified was he, of the enemy, and his own unawareness. Once again, Sauron had been in the right. 

Said person approached him slowly, now fully dressed, eyes trained on the distant land of Aman and its many smokes. His former home was fully operating, and he could imagine all those people, working hard. It brought warmth to his heart, but also dread. Melkor was examining his look of amazement, and was enraged by it. 

“Do you miss your home so much, you damned whore,” he said in disdain,” that you can barely hide the delight upon seeing it?” Sauron averted his look, ashamed. 

“If you wish to go, then now is your chance. I will not hold it against you,” Melkor said in resignation. “If that place is so dear to you, dearer than all that you have become under my care, then go. I have already told you that and I intend to keep my word,” but his heart was rebelling against those words. Anger was spreading throughout him, the crown upon his brow working its way into his mind, making him almost blind with rage. So much that it paralyzed him and nearly rendered him blind. But Sauron did not leave his post. He was merely looking at his master, who now turned his back to him. He could not utter any word in his defense.

“Long have you been daydreaming about it. I know of it. And you know that I know. That is why you brought me here, to watch as you go. To get your revenge on me.” 

“You are in the wrong, Master. I would never dare betray the one who raised me so well and gave me all the power and reign over my own fortress,” Sauron said quietly.

“You know your way with words,” Melkor replied, “I have taught you that and I have nothing else to teach you in that respect. But if you thought you could fool me with things of my own design, they you were dearly mistaken, Mairon,” he said, and Sauron could not help but notice hypocrisy in his master’s words. Ever since that incident many years ago, Melkor had been addressing him by his original name of Mairon, and in his ears it seemed nothing but a way to manipulate him. 

“If you do not believe in that, then, please do believe in my sense of pride. For what kind of a person would I be if I were to commit betrayal once more, and return to ones I had wronged before?”

Melkor was taking a moment to think about it. “You have a point,” he admitted. “But that does not change the fact that you long for Aman and your old master’s forge.”

“No, I do not. Angband is my home. To many, it seems a dark place of despair, but to me it has been nothing but home. That is the place where I was able to work to my heart’s content on the things I wanted. I put my skills to good use, serving the most powerful being, who comes second only to Eru himself!”

“There is still this dark side of you that dreams of these lands, Mairon. Do not lie to me,” Melkor turned and approached him, towering over him in a manner threatening that the latter visibly shook in fear. “There is still the dark side of you that wishes you were somewhere else, and not in Angband. In somebody else’s embrace. In somebody else’s service,” he grabbed him by the arm. “How can I trust a lieutenant with such thoughts,” he said through gritted teeth, squeezing Sauron’s hand almost to the point of shattering his bones. 

“Father! I beg of you to stop,” Sauron suddenly yelled, and the way in which he addressed the Dark Lord left both of them surprised. Melkor let go of his arm, but was still so close that Sauron could hear his rapid heartbeats. “it is true. It is true,” he said, panting, yet again lowering his head to hide his embarrassed face, “but I would never dare act upon it.” The fact that he had uttered the word ‘father’ so naturally remained bitter in his memory, and he was still in shock from that only. He turned his back to Melkor and made a few steps forward, until he was almost touching the dry land. Melkor was watching his every move with eyes narrowed in anticipation. ‘If he steps his foot on that soil, I will rip his soul from his body, like I did before, and I will do it many times over,’ the Dark Lord thought bitterly.

The Maia stopped and looked at the dark clouds over the once bright, cheerful land. Once again, he became overwhelmed with fear. “In my estimation, we need to begin preparations immediately,” the Maia started, “for they have probably made half their weapons. The Vanyar, the least trained of the bunch are probably halfway through their training. We can easily overpower them, since they are not accustomed to war. We should fear the wrath of the Valar and Maiar, and hope they would not come to this war,” he said grimly. “But they will. And the Noldor will unite once again. We have to breed our dragons to endure. We have to fortify Angband, recruit as many Men as we can, breed more durable Orc, forge more durable weapons and suits of armor,” he was already making plans, reciting them out loud to his lord. “If we want to have a chance of winning, we have to start as soon as possible.” 

There was no trembling in his voice, and Melkor felt a bit of admiration because of it. Now that his rage had subsided, fear replaced it, and the notion of the real danger that was upon him. He did not need to remove his crown to be aware of the possibility that they would most probably lose this war. “Come,” he said gently to his lieutenant, extending one arm, “Let us go home.” Sauron took the last look at the Undying Lands, reluctantly.


	9. The Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I apologize for such a late update! I hope somebody is still reading this. I had a lot of things to do, especially because I got a job, so I didn't have much time to post anything. The things are cooking up pretty nicely, so I hope you'll like this chapter and stay tuned for more! :)

Hordes of soldiers were lined up behind the gates of Angband, making their final preparations. After a long while, the battle was finally taking place. The many troops coming in perfect formations from the sea could be seen from the peaks of Thangorodrim. Melkor’s tired, resigned eyes were looking at that sight in the distance, terribly afraid, not of the large army launched upon his new kingdom, but of the calm upon the sea, and their sails full of wind. His brother was about to come, just like the remainder of the enraged Valar, to capture him once again, and give him his final verdict. 

Sauron climbed the steep flight of stairs up to where Hurin once had sat, and where now Melkor stood, his long, black hair fluttering in the violent wind, his eyes ever piercing, looking through the black smoke of the peaks as if it were a mere transparent curtain. The Maia was clad in an impeccable suit of armor, new and cared for, his ornamented helmet held in his hands. It was not a gaudy decoration, but it had a set of long horns curled backwards, looking both majestic and intimidating. It was one of the designs he had been working on when there was naught else to do, many centuries ago, enabling it to glide freely and easily and not be in the way of battle. It could give him a bit of speed, as well. 

He had been working for unnumbered hours on breeding the finest dragons, the youngest ones, and had them trained by Ancalagon the greatest of dragons. He had forged alliances with new hordes of Easterners, promising them great many riches in exchange for their faithful service. He had taught many new slaves how to forge weapons and armors, making sure they loved what they were doing, imprinting in their heads that Lord Melkor’s word was final and absolute, and that there was nothing beyond that. Despite him being a mighty creature, one of the mightiest Maiar, there were many things he had to attend to that required physical form, and hence Melkor often saw his Maia utterly exhausted, but working anyway, many times until collapsing. 

“I believe the troops will be before our gates within a week, my Lord,” he humbly said. 

“I can see that myself, Mairon,” Melkor replied nervously. 

“Do not despair, my Lord, because I have prepared everything. There is nothing they can do that we cannot counter. We have the numbers. We have the dragons. We have the best swords in the entirety of Middle-earth. We are more experienced in battle.”

“I am aware of all of that, Mairon. But what you are forgetting is that the Valar are coming with them. A great calamity that will befall us…Manwë my brother, with his terrible winds and eagles that did this to my face,” his tone was dark, as he was pointing at his face with one of his hands, not even for a second detaching his look from the sea. “Ulmo with his treacherous water that can extinguish the flames of our dragons…Have you forgotten the violent Tulkas and Oromë, ever ready for battle…And your old master Aulë, of whose forge you are still dreaming…You may be good at what you are doing, but he is your teacher and he is the father of all the craft. Have you forgotten all of that, Mairon?”

Sauron lowered his head in humility, feeling sorrowful that his master did not have much faith in their cause and in his work. “If you will allow me, my Lord, this is all we have, and we have done our best. Should we simply resign when it took us so long to make Middle-earth your kingdom? After all the peril, it is finally in your hands and I am ready to fight for what is yours,” he said. “I wish I could give you more than mere power of a Maia can provide you with, but this is all I have to offer.”

“Such generosity coming from someone who longs for the comfort of his old forge and his people,” Melkor said bitterly. 

“Forgive me, my Lord Melkor, but, as you once said to me, we cannot change the past. I see the forges here now as my own home, this fortress and you as my only lord and my father,” Sauron said, knowing that it was what Melkor wanted to hear most, despite knowing that the Vala could see through him and his intentions to calm his temper. Melkor sneered. 

“Things have changed since then, have they not? Since I did that deed to you.”

“Nothing has changed, Master,” Sauron said in a calm, gentle tone. “I am still serving you as faithfully as always, and I always will.”

“We shall see that in the upcoming war,” Melkor lifted his eyebrow in doubt. “Whether you will defect or not.”

“As you wish, my King,” Sauron bowed slightly, before leaving his master by himself, to look at the approaching army and despair. 

\---  
And soon enough, the battle began. The beautiful commander of Melkor’s army, with his head encased in a splendidly ornamented black helmet, his back straight and proud, sitting upon a strong steed, was standing before the soldiers, waiting for the enemy to arrive. The feeling of anticipation was in the air, as they were approaching, and Sauron was looking at them with eyes of determination. He instructed the generals what to do and when, and when he deemed it was time, he charged violently, screaming at the top of his lungs to give his men courage. 

Melkor was watching from the peaks, as usual, fearing his fellow Valar and fearing betrayal from the most trusted one he had. His crown that bore the two remaining Silmarils was still sitting heavily upon his head, preventing him from thinking any rational thoughts, and in such delirium he watched the events of the battle unveil before his blood red eyes. He had not slept in days, anticipating to see how they would fare, even though he had deemed this war lost. 

At first it looked magnificent—two armies clashing one against another violently, mercilessly; Sauron’s people cutting through the lines of the enemy troops, and he, in his dark suit of armor, upon a strong, tall horse, beheading people left and right; the blond heads of those Vanyarin people, the war virgins, flying in all directions. And then, at the head of the second wave of the enemy army, a white soldier. A white commander; his helmet white with golden ornaments, and his hair long and white, longer than Sauron’s, fluttering like a flag in the wind, through the top of said helmet. He thought it impractical as it could entangle in the swords and other weaponry, and so he snorted at stupidity of such a thing, when he noticed that the person was not much corporeal as he was a spirit. 

Eönwë the herald of Manwë his brother, standing tall and proud, clad all in white, and his steed was white too. He had a long, white spear, and was waiting for the second wave of Sauron’s division to attack him. This was of great interest to the Dark Lord, who had anticipated betrayal more than anything else. He was watching the exchange of the two with calm eyes, dark, seething anger hidden deep within. 

\---  
Months were passing in such fashion. Sauron’s vast army was steadily advancing, and, at first, it appeared that they had a great advantage over the assailants. There was no need yet to use the dragons, although Melkor, now a bit encouraged, thought it would be lovely to demonstrate his power and release them. But, despite being of irrational thought due to the crown, he refrained from doing such an action. He did not wish to ruin what he had thought would be a quick defeat, for Sauron had turned it into a victorious campaign. 

Upon each return, the Maia would come exhausted, barely standing on his feet. He would drag his feet across the stone floor, not having the strength to be stoic around his servants. Several of them would hurriedly run around him to assist him with removing his battered armor—that had to go to the repairs as soon as possible—the breastplates, the boots, his helmet. His dirty, greasy white hair would sometimes get tangled in it, so they had to be extremely careful when handling this part of his equipment. His sword was to be sharpened, if it had not been damaged, and if it had, then forged anew. There would always be a lot of things to be done before he left again to lead his people against the Forces of the World. 

Melkor hardly ever saw him; upon each return, Sauron would take a long bath, have a meal, and sleep for days. Most of the time, Melkor was aware of his whereabouts when on the battlefield. He would sleep, and eat among his people, having a good rapport with them. He was a charismatic person, so it was not hard for him to persuade people into doing anything he wanted. For this purpose, he wanted to show himself as their equal, an amiable and not formidable commander, in all his splendor, sharing the bread with the inbreeding, undeserving Orc bastards.  
___  
Battered and barely standing on his feet, Sauron had but one wish. He wanted to soak his body in a tub full of water, and rest. His entire body was tingling with pain, tension, and tiredness. His servants had put a huge copper tub in his chambers and filled it with lukewarm water, adding a bit of relaxing herbs and fragrances. He undid his robe and unceremoniously, with a big splash, fell into the tub, his forearms and calves hanging over the edges of the tub, his head comfortably swung back against the edge of the tub as well, as he slowly closed his eyes, inhaling deeply once. His eyes were heavy with the oncoming sleep, but he could not allow himself to fall asleep just yet. He had planned on paying a visit to his lord in the throne room and discuss further actions they should take, based on the reports he was about to bring in. 

Little did he know that Lord Melkor, the only liege lord he had ever adored so much, was sitting on his bed, dark and crownless, watching him silently. Even the ever seeing Maia was not able to penetrate the dark aura he had cast around himself. He was entertaining himself with many a thought about his right hand, the person he had convinced himself he trusted, but never quite completely. Even with such freedom given, even with an entire fortress built for him to command, Melkor was wary of him just as much as he was of everyone and everything else. However, each Sauron’s return, and months upon months of hard labor were constantly proving to him the Maia’s loyalty over and over again. But then again, there was the question of Eönwë and Aulë, their mere presence that might be tempting Sauron to reconsider everything and abandon him. After all, his new body may not remember the horrors of that one time in the torture chamber, where his irrational thinking, paranoia, and jealousy had resulted in Sauron’s horrible mutilation. His body may not remember, but his mind certainly did. 

He was observing his long, strong neck being bent backwards, revealing his Adam’s apple, the well-defined jawline, the sharp, delicate points of his ears, his strong arms dangling freely over the tub, and tired, nearly deformed feet from marching for so long. Sauron was a good and devoted commander. He was capable and worthy, and yet, Melkor found it regrettable that he could not reciprocate with as much trust as Sauron deserved. 

Sauron swallowed hard, as his lord observed with utmost attention the motion of the apple as it went up, then down. He was following the pattern of his lieutenant’s breathing, relaxed, slow, and even. His limbs were twitching from time to time, because of the months of accumulated stress. He could see in detail every water drop resting on top of the forearm turned toward him, under the dim light of the torches. To him, the sight seemed oddly organic and mesmerizing. The dirty, black, long, torn nails, callouses on his palms. His forehead smeared with mud and sweaty, since the Maia had not washed his face yet. The half open eyelids struggling to keep their position. 

“Tell me, Mairon, in which way would you like to be rewarded for your excellent service?” Melkor inquired, making his presence known. Sauron startled at once, looking in the direction of his bed, recognizing the subtle silhouette of his lord’s dismissive hand. “No need to stand up. It was not my intention to disturb your moment of repose,” his voice was deep and unusually calm. 

“My Lord,” Sauron began, but was interrupted. 

“Most recent news,” was a command Melkor uttered. 

“When it comes to military prowess, we are still unmatched, but our supplies cannot be replenished as quickly as the enemy’s. We cannot stand long in battle, and the troupes are exhausted. We were forced to retreat northward, I am afraid.”

“After so many years of strife, I suppose it was unavoidable,” Melkor said, as if he had expected such an outcome all the while. “But you fought well, and you shall be rewarded accordingly. Tell me, what is it that you want?”

“No, my Lord. It is not over yet. We still have the flying dragons!”

“Do you think they would last, my naïve, optimistic servant?” Melkor chuckled, and the sound seemed unsettling and out of place to the Maia. “With the things being as they are, you may as well go to their side. To the white commander. To your old forge you long for in your sleep,” it was the taunt oft repeated over the years, full of bitterness and resentment. “I would not hold it against you if you did it. Certainly, I would not torture you so horribly again. If you wish to go, then you are free to do so. I release you from my service.” 

“My Lord, I could never wish for something like that!” Sauron replied, gasping, as he thoughtlessly, abruptly stood up from his bath, dripping wet, bare, yet feeling no embarrassment. “How many more times must I prove my loyalty to you, my liege, in order for you to comprehend it?” his voice was giving away the frustration he was feeling at that moment. To be doubted so fiercely when he had done nothing but proved his loyalty ceaselessly felt like an insult. There was a long silence before either one of them spoke. Sauron used that opportunity to don a robe prepared for him at the foot of his bed; it was simple in design, dark green cotton material. Despite having a keen eye for items of beauty and lushness, he, as one who loved order above all else, found his tastes lay in simplicity rather than gaudiness. The same could be said for the jewelry he seldom wore during the previous few years. Having wrapped his exhausted body in this cloth, he offered his lord a cup of wine, which the Dark Lord accepted.

“You know full well that I know of what you dream every time you fall asleep. Do not think that I did not notice that look on your face, full of desire to get back when we were leaving Helcaraxë. That, even I can understand, after such a torture, your resentment should be expected, and your desire to flee can be understood as well. But I did not forget that one Elf you had picked up as your pet even before that, who resembled the banner bearer of my brother.”

At first, Sauron seemed genuinely confused, before remembering who Melkor was referring to. “As soon as I killed him, he was forfeited, never brought back to mind, master. Even now, it took some time for me to remember him,” he said, frowning in disbelief at what his master was able to remember. “Ages have passed since then, master Melkor…”

“Certainly you forgot about him,” the Dark Lord interjected, “because I thought of a method to keep you, and it was a costly one. I had to go so far as to seduce you and allow you to share the comfort of my bedchambers. I had to satisfy your hunger for flesh, despite my many wounds that hurt excruciatingly with as little as a small stir. I even went as far as to remove my crown so as not to burn you.”

“And I am indebted to you for all of it,” Sauron humbly said, but, in truth, he was angry.  
“Angband will fall. I do not require your services anymore. You served me well up until now. But I cannot reciprocate with what you deserve, Mairon. I cannot give you anything you desire so. I cannot give you the riches for there will be nothing to give, or dominion over a piece of land, or affection, or love. I cannot offer you anything with the exception of your freedom. I can also offer you companionship between the sheets, but you clearly stated you do not wish that any longer.”

“I am aware of everything, my Lord,” Sauron said, with his head lowered. “And I do not ask for any of those. It certainly is regrettable, though, that you thought the only way of keeping me loyal was by means of lovemaking, where I would have stayed loyal nonetheless. If I had to point out the moment where I had the chance to overthrow you, I would have to say during the time of your imprisonment. There was no one to question my authority and contest it. There was no one who could stop me. But I repaired Angband and waited for your return for three long, agonizing ages. And proudly gave you the command of the fortress that was, in essence, mine,” Sauron said and Melkor knew this to be true. “And as such, I shall stay with you even if Angband indeed falls.” 

Despite being a person of little compassion, it seemed to Melkor that Sauron was exacting some sort of punishment on himself, or rather, it seemed he had resorted himself to such a fate. He wanted to follow it through, since it would hurt his pride to change sides once more. For the first time, he was feeling powerless, but not in a sense that required the power of an Ainu. In his own code of conduct and honor, he always intended to give something of equal value in return to ones he deemed worthy, hence he had given Sauron power beyond his imagination, in exchange for the latter’s services. 

“But there are two things, however, that I want, and you can grant them to me if you so desire,” the Maia added. He was still standing in front of his lord, hesitantly looking in his direction with his luminous eyes. 

“Oh? And what would that be?” asked Melkor, with one eyebrow slightly lifted. 

“To release Ancalagon and the others. And to lend me your crownless wisdom.”

“You want me to remove my crown?” Sauron knew he was treading a dangerous path, but he was adamant about that one request.

“We can make a replica, and put the original one in the chest I took the liberty to design…You can hide the chest wherever you deem suitable, without anyone’s knowledge.”

“You dare to make such an audacious request, Mairon!” Melkor abruptly stood up, revealing the crown he was hiding in his cape. He proudly, demonstratively put it on his head, towering over his lieutenant, deliberately directing the light of the remaining two Silmarils toward Sauron’s eyes. 

“We need your wisdom for this campaign. For your realm! With the crown, that is impossible! It is making you paranoid and insane!” Sauron exclaimed recklessly, in frustration, faster than he was able to stop himself from doing so. With each sentence he uttered, Melkor was getting angrier. “They are not a symbol of might but of weakness, my liege! Can you not see? Please let me prove it to you!” he was terrified by the words he was uttering, but he could not stop himself. It appeared, in a way, that this was the confrontation that had been bound to take place at some point, and, justifying it as such, he embraced it. 

“It appears that the thing you wish for in exchange for your service is to not mangle you once more for your blasphemous words. You should tread carefully, for I exhausted my reserves of patience for you,” Melkor warned menacingly. 

“I implore of you, father!” cried Sauron, knowing full well that Melkor, in a perverse way, liked to be called such by him. “With our forces joint, we can end this permanently.”

“And what then?” came a sudden question. “What should I do with those lands and those people?”

“Govern them, like you used to.”

“Things that I did not create. That is the thing you desire, Mairon. To conquer and rule. It is not my wish, but yours. I seek to destroy everything that I did not take part in. Your old master was allowed to keep his creations, but I, who wanted to fill the Void with my own creations, was brutally denied. I, the firstborn, the mightiest, was not appointed the King of Arda. I counted for nothing among my own kin..”

“But you did take part in the song, Master Melkor, and that part of Arda is yours.”

“Corrupt, foul things that fail over and over. Those are not things I ever wanted to create. Father never gave me a chance to prove myself and to show what I can do with the Flame Imperishable. What wonders I had in store, what plans for this dark, lonely vastness,” Melkor’s eyes were full of sadness and regret, and behind those layers lay hidden anger. “What would you know about that, Mairon?” he snorted. “What gives you the impression that you know me?”

Initially wanting to let the Dark Lord discover by himself his true purpose, something Sauron had realized a long time ago after a lot of thought, he decided to enlighten his master, in order to soothe him. “I might not know you intimately, my Lord. What I do know, however, is your role in this world,” he began. “Our lord Eru created you for a very special and strenuous task. He made you the strongest, because only you can bear so much burden. To balance out the world, you needed to be the darkness, for there is no light without it, nor is there darkness without light. You are the strongest, and to match your strength, the others were created. Your brother is but a speck of dust, a miniature speck of dirt under your nail, compared to you. And your task is the hardest of all. Your dreams were taken away from you, your intentions neglected; you were stripped of many joys, sacrificed, shunned and hated by all, for the greater good. But you are successfully fulfilling your role. And in that lies your power, for you truly mold this world, and are a balancing force nobody can disrupt alone,” Sauron said ardently. “And I am here to be your counterweight, but by your side.”

Melkor was listening to him carefully and solemnly. “But, in the end, light will prevail, will it not? With the supplies that we have, that will be the case,” he said quietly.

Little did Sauron know that, what he meant as comfort, would materialize in the future, “The remnants of your influence will plague the world in order to maintain the balance. You are one of the essential constituents of this world.”

“My own father went against me from the beginning, making me for this sole purpose. I was never meant for something greater,” Melkor said, bitterness and rage in his voice. “I was just a pawn, without a choice of my own. All of this was his effective ploy. He could not even give me the primitive ability to create, the children of my own, with anyone. But Melian could. With an accursed Elf lord,” he was now seething with rage. “Her offspring tricked us both, did she not, Mairon?” he looked at his right hand, who stood firmly and regally, still of a dirty face. The Dark Lord could never forget the look of barely hidden disappointment in his Maia’s eyes upon hearing of how he had gotten to lose his Silmaril. The years it had taken him to realize the rationality and pragmatism of Sauron, and the fact that he was capable of love, and harbored it for none other than the Dark Lord himself, which the latter had cruelly used to his advantage. 

The very thought of how powerless and controlled he actually was, was sickening. The feeling of horror upon hearing this, probably very accurate observation, made him feel overwhelmed with helplessness. He wanted to tear the flesh off of his face, his arms, his torso. He wanted to turn himself into dust and never assume any shape and conscious existence ever again. For he was nothing but a pawn in a great scheme of Eru, his father. Everything now was meaningless, as the hot balls swirled in his stomach and chest. 

“I am afraid she did,” Sauron replied simply. 

“You, too, once danced for me, do you remember?” Melkor asked abruptly. “It was a fine, beautiful dance,” it had been the time when he was in full strength, youthful and beautiful. “But you stole nothing from me,” he finished. Sauron was feeling hopeful, wanting this speech to continue and turn into touches he had not felt in a very long time. But Melkor said nothing in addition, and went past his Lieutenant, toward the door. “You may resume with your bath,” he said dismissively, distantly.  
___  
TBC.


End file.
